


Justice and Other Deadly Sins

by magnificent



Series: Love and Other Deadly Sins [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Humor, Cute, Drug Use, F/M, Fluff and Smut, LW is a tsundere, Novelette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-08-27 13:24:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8403304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificent/pseuds/magnificent
Summary: In a lawless world of gray morality, how can you decide who's good and who's evil?After Charon kills Ahzrukhal, the Lone Wanderer begins to feel conflicted about the lines that define people. And her growing feelings don't make this any easier.





	1. Employed

_“Charon just killed Ahzrukhal!”_

The exclamation, whispered or shouted, whirls around me as all hell breaks loose. Ghouls fleeing the room, others struck dumb with fear and frozen in place, covering their heads in a pathetic attempt to shield themselves. Still others are running towards the Ninth Circle and halting right outside, the noise increasing as a crowd gathers.

As all this happens, Charon and I are facing each other, the only two still elements in all the chaos. His arms are by his sides, an unthreatening posture, but after spending a few days fighting with him, I know just how deadly he can be without a weapon in hand.

He's waiting, as if he thinks I'm going to pull a gun on him myself. But I'm not a goddamn idiot, and if he's killed _both_ of his most recent masters, I'm not going to give him a reason to kill me too. I am, however, horrified, sad, scared, and beyond all, _pissed off._ I don't know how to react to this, that murder of a friend in cold blood, so I reset to default.

Anger.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” I snarl, stalking over to his side.

Charon doesn't flinch at my reaction. He only says, “Ahzrukhal was an evil bastard. So long as he held my contract, I was honor bound to do as he commanded. But now you are my employer, which freed me to rid the world of that disgusting rat. And now, for good or ill, I serve you.”

I stab a finger at his chest, and I note how he represses an automatic movement in his left arm, potentially a reflexive block or even an attack. “He was my friend, you big dumb fuckwad!”

“He was evil,” Charon repeats. “You do not know of the things he commanded me to do.”

My fists clench. “You're insane.”

He says, “We should go.”

“What, before you fucking get _lynched?_ Or banned from Underworld? Fuck you, Charon.” I pinch the bridge of my nose for a few seconds, thinking quickly, and then breathe in. _I'm the Hero of the Wastes. If nothing else, at least I have my reputation to help us out._

“What the hell is going on?”

 _And, the first of them shows up._ I turn wearily, seeing the first ghoul who welcomed me into Underworld—Winthrop, the town's mechanic, and I suppose head of security, since he's in charge of maintaining Cerberus.

“Ahzrukhal is dead,” I announce curtly. “There's five thousand caps near the body. Please take that and use it as compensation for damages and for the funeral.”

“And Charon?” the ghoul says, his mouth tightening.

“I've got his contract. If it's alright with you, I'm going to take him with me. Unless you believe that some sort of punishment is in order?” I really hope not. What on earth would they want to do? Kill him? Cut off a hand? Lock him up for one hundred years?

But Winthrop only shakes his head. “Doctor Barrows is the mayor, technically, but I don't think anyone will say anything if Charon walks free. Ahzrukhal... well... there would probably be justification for what Charon did to him.”

“Are you serious?” I ask. Damn. I knew the guy was crooked, but still. What on earth could piss Charon off that much? Did he make him kill someone? _Torture, murder, and worse..._ Could it be that the only reason Ahzrukhal knew he'd done those things was because he asked him to?

Winthrop kneels by the body, and I make an impatient gesture to Charon. “Come on, jackass, you're coming with me. And don't kill anyone else in Underworld, okay?”

“As you wish,” Charon says.

 

I swing by Carol's Place, fuming mad; I throw open the door and shout, “Hey, Carol! Congratulations, business is about to boom.”

Greta throws me a dirty look, especially when she sees how much breast I'm showing. Goddamn jealous lesbian bitch.

“Carol's busy,” she snaps.

“Nonsense,” Carol says, rushing around the corner. She wipes her hands on a rose-printed apron. “I was just washing dishes. Is there something going on? I thought I heard a commotion...”

She trails off, staring at Charon.

I jerk my thumb backwards. _Okay, here goes._ “I bought that guy, he blew Ahzrukhal's brains out. Don't cry about it, though, he tried to get me to kill Greta a few minutes ago.”

“Wh... what?” Her eyes are wide and frightened. Certainly not what she was expecting to hear.

“Real asshole,” I agree, “even if he was a good bartender.”

“It was my contract that you purchased,” Charon reminds me quietly, “not me.”

A momentary silence. Carol's watery blue eyes glance between us, and then she whispers, “Helena, I don't know what on earth possessed you to purchase his contract, but the first moment you can, you _must_ sell it.”

I scoff. “After all this trouble?”

“He's _dangerous.”_

“Ma'am,” I say, “I appreciate your concern, but I'll be fine. Now, do you have any letters for Gob? He doesn't have any time to write anything back, but he got your mail and was _very_ pleased that you wrote so much to him. He says to tell you that he misses you too, and that he's doing well.”

“Such a good girl,” Carol murmurs, distracted. She gives Charon a wary glance, and then focuses on me, putting it out of her mind. Guess it's easier to leave difficult things for later. I can't imagine what it would be like to have a sworn enemy and competitor for over fifty years, suddenly dead--right after he'd tried to have her girlfriend killed. “Thank you. Yes, I have more letters for him... give me a moment to find them.”

She rushes away, and I take advantage of the time by looking through Charon's contract. The lettering is so faint because of the bloodstains, I can barely read it; I catch various phrases such as, _the contract-holder... to the best of subject's ability...clause a: subject is unable to perform certain tasks, such as..._

Charon clears his throat. “A part of the contract is my ability to recite the document upon command.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised. “Will.. will you do so?”

His eyes glaze over as he says, “The subject within the contract, s. number oh-five-six-two-nine, is permanently bound and conditioned to follow each and every order of the contract-holder, within the spirit of the command and not necessarily the letter. The subject is classified, according to law, as a lethal weapon and any laws broken by the contract-holder are the responsibility of the contract-holder and theirs alone. The subject is required to fulfill all demands at the best of subject's ability, regardless of weather, risk, pain, or any other potential deterrents.

“Objective: subject will protect the contract-holder from any and all threats (robbery, assassination attempts, psychological attacks, inclimate weather being a fraction of potential examples) with speed and subtlety.

“Clause a: subject is unable to perform certain tasks, such as any paradoxical or impossible demands that the contract-holder might have. Example: subject will not attempt to speak French if subject is not fluent in French.

“Clause b: subject has the right to refuse meaningless or menial tasks. Example: subject will not make a triple chocolate mochiatto every morning. Disclaimer: subject may do so by choice.

“Clause c: orders by contract-holder may not supercede any of the clauses nor the primary objective.

“Clause d: physical violence violates the contract. The contract-holder may not order the subject to kill themselves, nor is the contract-holder allowed to order the subject to remain still while being killed.

“Clause e: subject is required to sustain its own life, even at the cost of others, aside from the contract-holder. Subject must stay in good health and will make all efforts to remain uninjured, at the cost of others, aside from the contract-holder.

“Clause f: subject-”

“Here it is,” Carol says, returning. I tear my eyes away from Charon, my mouth hanging open, and shake myself.

“O-oh. Thanks, Carol. Is that everything?”

“Yes, dearie. Please stay safe.” She squeezes me in a hug and adds, “Don't forget what I told you about him, either.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I say obediently. I hug her back, holding back a smirk when I notice Greta glaring daggers. _Freaking lesbians._ Maybe she'll be a little bit nicer when she finds out that I was offered a reward for killing her and opted not to. “Alright, Charon, let's go. You have anything you need to get?”

“I own nothing,” he says, “but anything I have with me is yours.”

“Huh,” I say. Kinda creepy, but, sure. “Alright, then, what have you got?”

He rattles off a list of things, from his shotgun and armor all the way down to his underwear. I feel my face heat up and he stares at me impassively. “Uh... okay... I guess that's fine for now...”

“Very well.”

I hurry down the stairs, hiding my red face from him. Geez. For a guy who gets all weird about sensitive stuff like that, he sure isn't caring about it now. Is that just because of the contract?

“Hey,” I say, once we're in the metro. “Am I allowed to give you the contract? You know, for safe-keeping?”

“It is allowed,” he agrees, “as long as you are willing to entrust it to me. All your rights to commanding me will remain intact.”

I hand it over and he takes a minute to secure it to an inner pocket of his shirt.

“Take care of it,” I say. “If anyone even comes close to touching that thing, knock them unconscious and bring them to me.”

“It will be as you command,” Charon says.

“Good,” I say. It gives me a kind of spiteful pleasure to have him at my beck and call, although I have to admit that there's definitely a difference in how he's treating me. Not sure what it is, what gives it away. Is he looking at me less than usual? Is he being less sarcastic?

I have Charon with me, I _own_ him, and he's never going to leave me or disobey me. But why is it that now that I have him, this unapproachable man seems even more distant than before?

 

We walk to Megaton together, more or less uneventfully. I'm alarmed when we pass by the one raider camp I always avoid, and he whips out his shotgun and is looking down the barrel at the raiders below.

“Charon!” I hiss. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“They are a danger to you,” he says quietly, aiming.

“They don't even see us!”

He hesitates. “I am more than capable of killing them all as well as protecting you.”

“Hah. You think so? Okay, fine, but I'm joining you.” My M1 Garand is in my hands already. I hope this helps work some tension out of my system.

“That is acceptable provided you do not put yourself in any significant danger,” Charon says. “What would you like me to do?”

I scan the raider camp. Shitty place to set up, really. They're just below us, about fifty yards away down a steep hill. You _never_ set up in an open area. Although they probably thought they'd be safe, since there's four of them. Only two of them have guns though.

“I've got the girl with the pink buzzcut. You get the asshole in the leather jacket. On my mark. One... two... three.” Our shots both hit our marks, and the raiders fall; a piece of buckshot catches a nearby raider in the arm and he roars.

“Shit, Psycho,” I say, noting the saliva dripping from his mouth. “Kill that fucker!”

Charon grunts in acknowledgment and drops him in three more shots. He takes a moment to reload; the last raider is hiding behind the cover of a massive pre-War farming machine, so I decide to press ahead. I leap forward and slide down the hill, my soft-soled leather boots smooth enough to let my weight take me the whole way. The weight of my M1 nearly knocks me down, though, and I end up sprawled at the bottom.

“Helena!”

“Come out and fight me, bitch!” I ignore Charon's alarmed shout and stand up unsteadily. “I will _end_ you!”

The raider growls and stalks around the side of the tractor; he's a huge fat man with steel armor and armed with nothing but a crowbar.

“Motherfucker,” I curse, and shoot, but he's already halfway through his swing and my shot goes wide. _Shit._ I can hear Charon swearing up a storm and he takes a few rapid shots at the raider, but most of the buckshot sinks into the raider's armor. The rest of it sprays around us, a single piece finding its way into my own fucking arm. Hurts like a bitch and it's enough to make me gasp and nearly drop my rifle.

“Motherfucker!” I shriek, dodging another earth-shattering crowbar strike. “You trying to kill me too?”

Charon snarls something and his next shot on target—the raider topples and the crowbar falls beside him with a dull thud.

“You goddamn idiot!” Charon roars, sprinting down the hill. He kneels by my side, his eyes blazing. “What the hell were you trying to do?”

I grin weakly, holding onto my throbbing arm. “You know my name?”

“What?” Charon snaps, and then shakes his head impatiently. “Helena. Yes.”

“You've never said it before. I kinda thought that you didn't know my name.”

Charon's jaw tightens and he takes a second to glare at the sky, evidently taking a moment so that he isn't tempted to hit me. “I figured that 'drunkard' or 'woman' would be inappropriate to use with my employer. Shall I go back to using one of those?”

“No, no,” I say, still smiling. “Helena is just fine.”

“Listen,” Charon growls. “ _I_ am your bodyguard. Leave the close combat to me.”

“But,” I say, “I'm so good at it.”

Charon ignores my comment, instead preferring to check me over. I gaze up into his eyes, a little overcome that he's paying so much attention to me, but he doesn't notice. He's muttering under his breath, then says, “What happened to those two pistols you had before?”

“I sold them in order to buy you,” I say sweetly.

“You did not _buy_ me,” he says through gritted teeth. “You purchased the _contract._ What were you thinking, running out into the wasteland with only a long-range weapon?”

“I was _thinking_ that you would protect me,” I retort. “Instead you shot me. Isn't that against your beloved contract of yours?”

“No,” he says, jabbing a finger at me. “Don't you dare try to use that against me. I can hardly carry out my primary objective if you're actively working to stop me. That's your own goddamn fault.”

I pout. “So you're not even going to help me bandage my wound?”

“You did not bring any stimpaks?” he asks in disbelief.

“I forgot them,” I confess. “I was pretty drunk when I left.”

Charon sighs, and without another word he tears a strip off of the hem of his shirt. He hesitates, then looks at me in pained exasperation.

“What?” I say.

“I, ah... I need you to remove your jacket.”

I look down at myself. _Shit._ Amidst all the conflict, I'd forgotten what I was wearing. My breasts are nearly popping out of the bra, and my chest is sweaty and streaked with dirt. And, of course, due to dear Nova's suggestion, I'm not wearing anything on top except for the bra and the jacket.

 _On second thought, maybe I don't need bandaging after all..._ I'm a busty girl, but that's because I eat exclusively Fancy Lad Snack Cakes. I'm not fat, it's impossible to walk and fight as much as I do and be overweight, but I haven't got a flat belly. I haven't particularly cared until this moment.

I imagine Nova's indignation if I let this chance pass by though.

Charon says impatiently, “Your modesty is charming, but if you want me to take care of this...”

 _Shit._ I clumsily undo the pin holding my zipper in place, and then turn away from him to unzip it. My face has gone red again. _Calm down. You saw him shirtless too, didn't you? And it's not as if he's really going to think anything of-_

I flinch and nearly let out a tiny squeak as his fingertips touch my bare skin—he helps me out of one arm of the jacket, then drapes the loose part over my shoulder to keep as much of me covered as possible. My cheeks flush at his gentleness. My mind goes blank.

“Did the bullet exit?” he asks.

I check the other side of my arm. “Yes.”

His hands are calloused, but there's nothing about them that would differentiate him between ghoul or human, if one were to go by touch alone. I close my eyes. If he goes about touching me any longer, I might start to think that-

“Ack! Jesus fucking Christ!” I snarl, as Charon ties the bandage. “You're supposed to stop the bleeding, not make a goddamn tourniquet!”

“Do you want it to be effective?” he growls.

“Yeah.”

“Then that's how tight it has to be.”

I tenderly poke at the bandaging. It's stupid, but something inside me is secretly thrilled—the cloth is still warm from his skin. I disguise my pleasure by busying myself with my jacket.

Charon says, “I think you should go back to your old armor.”

I glare at him, pinning the zipper in place. “Why?”

“You may not have been injured if you had been wearing something thicker.”

Dammit. Yes, he's right, but that's just one less tool I can use to try to catch his attention.

“It's more comfortable,” I insist.

“Traveling light is advisable,” he says. “I agree. If you have excess supplies, I will carry them for you, if that's the trade-off.”

I let out a disappointed sigh. “Fine.”

At this rate, Charon's _never_ going to see the matching panties.

 

“Good morning, madam,” Wadsworth says as I open the door. “I see you have brought a guest.”

“Actually,” I say, “he's going to be living with us from now on.”

“Very well,” Wadsworth says. The robot whirrs for a moment, registering him in the database, then says, “Er... Madam, you do realize that you only have one bed?”

I flush. _Stupid._ I'm not even prepared for the slightest thing. “Oh, uhm... I didn't think about that. Charon, I guess you can sleep in my bed for now, I'm fine with the sofa-”

“That will be unnecessary,” Charon interrupts. “I do not sleep.”

“...what?” He can't be serious.

Charon continues, “I have lost consciousness before, due to injuries during combat, but I do not sleep nor have any need of rest.”

“That's insane,” I say in disbelief. “Are you shitting me?”

“I will not lie to you,” he says.

I bite my lip. _He's a liar._ One of the last things Ahzrukhal had said to me... before, you know, _getting shot in the fucking head._

“Well, why?” I ask.

“I would tell you if I knew. An effect of the conditioning? Perhaps some sort of mutation specific to myself alone? There are ghouls who only need to sleep for one hour, although I am the only one I know to be incapable.”

I cross my arms. “That's unhealthy.”

“I have found no ill effects,” he says.

“Doesn't mean there aren't any. Okay, here's an order for you: you have to lay down on the sofa and close your eyes for at least one hour every night.”

Charon looks affronted. “That is pointless.”

“It'll put less stress on your heart,” I say, “as well as improve circulation. Closing your eyes will help relax your mind as well.”

Charon grumbles and I shush him. “My dad is a doctor. I studied under him during my free time. I _do_ know a few things, Chare.”

“Charon,” he corrects. “Unless you want to rename me.”

I hesitate. _Rename_ him? Again, absolutely creepy. To think that I'd have the choice of doing something so controlling... “No. Why don't you like nicknames?”

He only stares at me and I give up. “Alright, fine. By the way, what was your name before Ahzrukhal changed it?”

“My previous name is irrelevant.”

“Not unless you liked it better.”

“I do not have a preference,” he says dryly, “but _Charon_ is a better name than some of the things that I have been called over the years.”

“I imagine,” I say. I wonder what his first name might have been, after he was ghoulified and picked up by his first post-War contract-holder. They must have been especially rude back then, with so little being known about ghouls, and with the ferals just starting to run amok.

Charon is looking around. “Where are your stimpaks?”

I shrug. “Beats me.”

The ghoul only sighs as we both look over the apartment. Despite Wadsworth's cleaning, I have a tendency towards hoarding... which means that things clutter the entire area. Books on shelves, cute knick-knacks that I've found, expensive jewelry recovered from ancient corpses, and multiple sets of clothing, mostly armor. Vault 101 jumpsuits and a security uniform, three complete sets of clothing from Talon mercenaries, and a mish-mash of comfortable pre-War clothes that I'd picked out of dressers. Then there's the guns and ammo, and the scotch.

As much as Charon gripes about my alcoholism, I can tell that even he is impressed when he approaches the glass cabinet that houses the bottles—or, as I call it, my 'alcohol altar'. I have vintages from any number of years back, some of them from recent years, brought down by caravans from the north, but most being my favorite brands: Johnnie Walker, Talisker, Glenfiddich. I hoard the good stuff and pull them out during celebration or sometimes on the first day of my period, when I drink myself into a stupor while laying in the fetal position.

“This is very unhealthy,” Charon finally says.

“Shut up, I saw you admiring them.”

He doesn't reply and says, “Mightn't your robot know?”

“What, where I put my shit? No, he just cleans up messes. I don't like it when people organize my things.”

“Ah,” Charon says grimly.

I appraise him. “I hope you're not a neat freak, Chare.”

“Your habits will be respected by me,” he says dutifully.

Huh. I was kind of thinking he would argue about the epithet again. Maybe he's getting used to it.

I roll my shoulders. I stink like booze and sweat. “Wadsworth, we get any rain up here recently?”

“If you are inquiring about the hot water, there should be a suitable amount,” my robot butler says.

“Thanks,” I say, and head upstairs.

One of the biggest things I've missed since leaving the Vault was hot showers. So, with some of the scrap metal and spare piping I'd begged off of Walter, I managed to fashion a hot water heater that sits right on top of my house. It collects rainwater, and is heated automatically from the burning sun in the spray-painted black tank. It can hold about fifty gallons, which is perfect for a small bath. Better yet, since it doesn't need a power source, it's easy to maintain. Since the piping leads directly into my bedroom, I don't even need a pump to draw out the water.

The only downside is that the water cools down to lukewarm during the night, but warm water is still better than risking a freezing-cold dip in the highly radioactive Potomac.

Charon follows me to the foot of the stairs, watching me suspiciously.

“I'm going to take a bath,” I call down to him from my bedroom, closing the door. “You're welcome to what's left of the water afterwards.”

I smirk as I stand naked above the steaming water, dumping essence of lavender into the bath. Ghouls have a bad sense of smell, but even Charon'll be able to smell this on me when I'm done.

He clears his throat from outside the door. “What will you have me do while I wait?”

Is it just me, or does his voice sound a little husky?

I grin. I'm sure it's just my imagination, but I'm fine with pretending. “Whatever you want,” I say. “Look around, eat something, crack open a bottle of Port Ellen? Scope out a new dark corner to sulk in?

“Or,” I add, dropping my voice a little, “you can stay outside the door and talk to me.”

Charon's sigh is audible, even as I step into the water. “If it is conversation you desire, then that is what I shall provide. It is a part of the contract.”

“Gross,” I say. “Then go away, do something else.”

He says, “I will continue to look for stimpaks.”

I drop my head back into the water, irritated. _Well, that's no fun._ He's forced to talk to me? I want him to talk because he wants to, not because of that dumb piece of paper.

My attention turns to the strip of linen on my left arm. Carefully, I tease open the knot and unwind it. Unfortunately I've bled on it a good bit, but it's the first thing that he's ever given me. I wonder...

I blush and I look around quickly, even though I know there's no one in here with me. Then I hold the fabric up to my nose and sniff. Leather and sweat, the smell of rot and sickness. I'm a little disappointed. I was hoping that Charon was vain enough to wear cologne, but I guess as a slave he's not privy to such luxuries.

 _He's a ghoul,_ I tell myself, folding the linen and tossing it at my bed. It unfurls before it gets close and drops to the floor. _You'd better get used to the smell._

I spend extra time scraping my skin clean, until all of me looks fresh and pink, going as far as to scrub the lint out of in between my toes. My long brown hair floats in the water behind me, stripped of the grease and muck of the tunnels.

I let out a long breath. I'd forgotten how relaxing baths were. Almost as good as draining a whole bottle of scotch after a long day, and falling asleep in my bed.

I'm disappointed that Charon can't sleep. I won't ever get to spy on him resting, won't get to see what sort of face he makes when he's relieved of all cares and tension. I won't be to startle him awake ever either, which sounds like a lot of fun.

“Helena,” Charon says.

I scowl. “Oh, you're back again? What is it?”

“I found a stimpak. It was in a basket filled with heroin and ecstasy. Do you have any other habits you would like to tell me about?” he rumbles.

I roll my eyes. “I collect it, okay? That shit's stuff raiders would die for. So I figure anytime I find it, I might as well take it back home with me.”

“Well, you have enough to kill the whole town.”

“Okay, so just don't do that and we won't have any problems, okay? Jesus.” I sit up, shivering as my breasts react to the cold air. “Just roll it under the door.”

There's a pause, then he says, “It won't fit.”

“Don't be a pussy, just shove it through.”

He growls, “So you want it to get stuck?”

“No. Goddammit.” I grab a towel and wrap my hair, then haul myself out of the water. “Fine, just hold onto it for now.”

“That's what I was intending to do. Aren't you decent yet?”

“Uhm, _no,”_ I say, my panties half-way up my legs. “You're so impatient. Haven't you ever waited on a woman before?”

“Rarely,” he says. “I have had few female employers, and never for long.”

“Huh. They probably got too annoyed with your dumb ass and sold you off the first chance they got.”

“Occasionally,” he says. “Others were killed, and others betrayed. I have changed hands within a week before.”

“How long do you think I'll last?” I ask, pulling a studded leather vest over my head. More raider chic, as Nova calls it. I got this one off a girl raider myself, actually. I like it because it covers my entire chest but leaves my arms bare. Nova will be mad that I've stopped showing off my cleavage, but enough is enough, especially if Charon is griping about it.

“I am not sure,” he replies. “Your drunkenness and foolishness would suggest a short amount of time, but your skill with a gun may keep you alive for a year or three, depending on how much you allow me to protect you.”

I make a face. Really? He's that unimpressed with me? “I was hoping that you'd at least give me a decade. I sort of want to know what being thirty feels like. Maybe even forty or fifty. You know, if Jericho can live to be sixty-five, then I should be able to live for awhile!”

“Jericho?”

“A friend of mine. Sort of. He's a lot like me, you'll definitely hate him.” I open the door and Charon takes me in, his eyes moving down from my wet hair, flushed cheeks, and bare feet. But I can't tell what sort of effect it has on him, because he only hands me the stimpak and looks at the bath.

“It is your request that I clean myself?” he asks reluctantly.

“Yeah,” I say. “I've been having to breathe in your zombie smell all the way from Underworld.” I point. “Bath. Now.”

He throws me a dirty look and closes the door. There's a slight pause, and then I hear the sound of clicks and thuds, practiced hands pulling open buckles and letting pieces fall to the floor. My ears go hot and I feel my body pulse. _Damn, not good._ I hurry away. _I will not listen to him undress, I will not be a pervert, I will not be a pervert, I will not..._

I repeat my mantra silently, hurrying downstairs and throwing open the doors to my alcohol altar. I just need to get myself extremely fucked up and forget that he's up there, is all.

Easy.

 _...yeah, right._ I lower myself onto the sofa and take a gulp of cheap booze. Something tells me that this is going to be a real long day.

 


	2. No

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awh, you beautiful people and your lovely comments... you know my weaknesses too well. Here, have another early chapter. ;_;

When Charon comes downstairs from his bath, I have to hide a smirk. His thin red hair is a little fluffy, and there's a few stray hairs sticking up straight on the back of his head. Other than that, he looks grayer—I realize that some of the color on his face must have been from the reddish wasteland dirt. Conversely, his scars are darker, heightening the contrast. He looks like a freshly washed corpse, ready for autopsy.

“You take a long time too,” I slur, gesturing at him with the nearly-empty bottle in my hand.

Charon grits his teeth and snatches it from me. “Drunk, again? At two in the afternoon?”

“Was bored,” I say, slouching back and belching. The first bottle of scotch tips over and I giggle.

“Oh, so not just one. _Two_ bottles. Charming.”

“We're goin' to the bar,” I say. “Figured I'd better... get a head start.”

“A head start,” he repeats. “I doubt that there is anyone trying to catch up with you.”

“You would be surprised,” I say. “Help me up.”

He extends a hand and I trap it with both of my own, then jerk hard towards myself. Charon groans as he stumbles forward but keeps his balance. “No. Do not start this again.”

“You scared?” I jeer.

“Helena,” he says firmly. “You said we were going to the bar. Come on.”

“Keep me company for awhile first,” I murmur. I tug at his hands again. “I don't bite. Much.”

I think I can see a little bit of color rising in what's left of his skin. “I am not going to participate in whatever plans you have for me right now.”

“You... don't have a choice,” I slur. “It's an order.”

Charon growls and, slowly, sits down as far away as he can.

“Don't be so shy,” I say, and carefully crawl over to his side. The room is spinning and I giggle as I almost lose my balance.

Charon's shoulders are rigid. I stroke his back, marveling at the hard muscles beneath the soft linen. He has his armor off and is left vulnerable to my greedy hands. My fingers weave into his hair and I smooth down the fluff at the top of his head. He's so strong. Desire heats my stomach, and I press against his arm.

“I do have the right to say no to this,” Charon says, “and I think I will take this opportunity to do so.”

He stands up abruptly, and I whine at him. “Where do you think you're going? Wasn't... done with you yet.”

He crosses his arms. “I am your servant in combat purposes. Not this.”

I growl at him and stumble to my feet. “Dumbass! You dumb fucking _shuffler!”_

“Insults are acceptable,” he rumbles. “You may shout at me all you like.”

“Shithead! Bastard!” I accuse. I take a swing at him and he catches my wrist and stops me before I'm within a foot of him.

“Physical violence invalidates the contract,” he growls, tightening his hold. I squeal and try to pull away, but he keeps me in place. “I will forgive you this one time. Do not test me again.”

He releases me and I fall backwards, snarling. I glare at him and he stares back mercilessly. “Fine!” I snap. “I'll just... go find someone else! I don't need a goddamn rotter... not like I can't find anyone...”

I throw open the door and he follows me out into the bright sunlight, painfully bright, blazing white against my eyes. He's a shroud of darkness behind me.

“The fuck are you following me for?” I spit.

“I am your employee,” he says. “I will protect you.”

“Don't need you,” I grumble. “Go away.”

“You are drunk,” he corrects, “and therefore easily taken advantage of. You cannot dismiss me.”

“Bull _shit.”_ I push him, and with a sigh he grabs my wrists. “Hey!”

“Alright,” he sighs. “Back inside.”

He heaves me over his shoulder, quite reminiscent of the first time we'd met, but this time I'm furious, not blissfully placated. I let out a shriek that echoes into the town and I hear the distant response of an alarm. Charon swears with an intensity that surprises me, and he uses my distraction to drag me back inside. He locks the door and I kick his thigh as hard as I can, trying to aim for his weak spot.

He growls something and shifts me, holding my legs still. I slip down a bit as he hauls me upstairs—my chin clunks against his shoulder and I seize the opportunity to sink my teeth into his shirt.

“Goddamn crazy bitch!” he groans involuntarily, and throws me onto my bed as hard as he can. The side of my head slams against the wall. Charon swears again, locks my bedroom door, and then sits down in the hallway outside.

I lay face-up on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I lick my lips, tasting the acrid, soapy taste of the lavender... my mouth is dry from his shirt. _Goddammit._ Something tells me that I've fucked up. I can't quite figure it out, because I'm so pissed at Charon, but I know I'll figure it out later. When I'm not drunk, I'll be able to think again.

It's so much easier to just deal with it later.

 

Unfortunately for me, 'dealing with it later' means that I wake up with a motherfucking headache. I'm groaning as I sit up, and my hand gingerly touches my temple. I can feel the swelling, and I assume it's probably bruised. How did I...

The memories rush back to me, and I groan again, this time in absolute shame. I massage my forehead for a few minutes, then check my Pip-Boy.

It's five in the morning, which means that I've slept for fifteen hours. Not surprising, seeing as I pulled a drunken all-nighter on my way down to fetch Charon.

Charon.

God fucking dammit.

I reluctantly crawl out of bed, unlock my door, and sigh. Charon is still sitting there, arms crossed, not looking up.

“I'm really sorry,” I say lamely.

He doesn't say anything.

I glance back. “Uhm... you did know that I could unlock the door from that side, right?”

He rouses himself, standing with the stiffness of a man who has been still for a very long time. “Yes. I thought that you may have been drunk enough to not know how to unlock it. Since you didn't come out until now...”

I scratch the back of my head. “Uhm... so... since I attacked you... is the contract broken? Are you going to leave now?”

“The contract allows me to defend myself until you cease your attack,” he replies. “Nothing more. I am still in your employ.”

I let out a shaky breath, not sure if I'm relieved or not. “Could you have killed me then? For doing that? Like you did with Ahzrukhal and your last master?”

He finally meets my eyes. “If it continued on for long enough? Yes. The more of a threat you pose to me, the more use of deadly force I am allowed. Fortunately for you, you are not very strong, were unarmed, and were made clumsy by drink.”

“Great,” I mumble. “Look, I didn't... I swear, I really didn't mean to, you know...”

“I understand,” he cuts me off. “After fifty years of working at a bar, I am sure I have seen every kind of tendency. Aggression is the most common.”

 _Even sexual aggression? From a woman, no less?_ I grimace. He must think I'm the most unladylike girl he's ever met. “Now that I'm sober, can I make you stay here while I go out?”

“Where are you going?”

“Just in town. I have to talk to a friend of mine.” I grimace again, thinking of Nova's bra and panties. “I have to return something I'm never, ever going to use again.”

“Very well,” Charon agrees. “I will remain here.”

 _Thank god._ I toss a few things into a day bag and dash out of the house. _I was suffocating in there._

“Hol-eee shit,” Jericho says, as soon as I step into Moriarty's saloon. “The fuck happened to you?”

I touch the bruise on the side of my head. “Had a bit of a disagreement.”

“Damn,” he says, and I sit across from him. Nova is leaning over his table, and gives me a tight smile as I approach.

“He's right,” she says. “Looks pretty nasty.”

She lowers her voice. “And, about that other thing we talked about...?”

I shove the bag at her. She takes it, glances inside, and shakes her head in disappointment. “Didn't work out, huh?”

“You can thank him for this,” I say, pointing at the side of my head.

She gasps. “He didn't!”

“What's this about?” Jericho interrupts.

“None of your business,” Nova snaps.

“Then why are you talkin' about it right in front of me?” he protests.

“Shut the fuck up,” I say. “I'm gracing you with the presence of the Hero of the Wastes, you should show some goddamn respect.”

He sneers at me. “Yeah, and ain't it a fuckin' joy.”

I roll my eyes. “Like you're fun to be around yourself.”

“I am if you'll let yourself find out,” he says, not bothering to be subtle. “We can always pick up where we left off the other month.”

“Do I look like I'm drunk?” I ask.

He grins. “No, but it doesn't hurt to try.”

Nova reaches forward and pinches the ex-raider's ear. “What's this about, sugar? You were just sweet-talking me a little bit ago, and now you're after another girl already?”

Jericho spreads his arms. “Calm down, ladies, there's more than enough of this old man to go around. If you want I can even handle both of you at the same time.”

“Gross!” I say, laughing. “You would have to pay me at _least_ five times as much to get me to sleep with you.”

“Better watch your words, darlin', or else I just might come up with the money.”

I figure I'd better change the subject. “So how was Megaton while I was away?”

“Boring as fuck. No one to drink with, nothing to attack. Killed a mole rat over the weekend. You need to quit hoggin' all the enemies, you bitch.”

I grin. “I would let you have some, but I'm too worried that your weak pussy-ass will get killed by something out there.”

“Hah! Fuck you too.” He takes a long swig of beer, then adds, “Wish you'd take me with you sometime.”

“I've told you before,” I say. “I don't like having partners.”

“Ugh. Well, I'll be here in Moriarty's, trying to get a free fuck out of Nova if you ever need me.”

“ _Need_ you?” I shoot back. “I don't ever even _want_ you.”

He smirks. “That's not what you were tellin' me last month, honey.”

Nova rolls her eyes. “Ridiculous. Come on over to the bar, Helena, or listening to this drivel is gonna rot your brain.”

“We on for tonight?” Jericho calls after us.

“Bring the caps at nine o'clock,” Nova replies, “and I'm yours for the night.”

Nova leads me over to Gob, and we sit down together. As usual, Moriarty is still outside, hanging around and looking out over his balcony. I'd told him a long time ago that I payed better when he wasn't inside the bar, and I've proved myself to be a good enough customer that he makes sure he stays out of my way. I only wish he'd go the extra mile and talk to me about releasing Gob and Nova.

“Awkward question,” I say, as Gob pours me a dram of scotch. “Is he, uh, actually any good?”

Nova snorts. “You mean in bed? I won't lie, he's not bad, but then you've also got to take into account that he's been inside half the pussies of the wasteland. He spends more money on Doc Church to cure the sores on 'Jericho Junior' than he spends on me.”

I wince. “I just meant... I was hoping he was nice to you.”

She looks at me in surprise. “Awh, honey. That's sweet of you to ask. Yes, he's not the worst customer I've had. Not the best, but I'd but him on the upper half of my list, if I had one.”

“Good,” I say. I would definitely give him a slow end in the wastelands if I found that he's been hurting her or mistreating her.

“Fortunately with me being Moriarty's only whore, I get decent treatment, all things considered. Anyway. So, tell me what happened!”

I take a deep breath, resting my elbows on the bar. “Honestly? It was a complete disaster from the beginning. I lost almost all of my money, so I'm essentially broke. One of my friends in Underworld got shot, and I didn't see the other one down there at all. Oh, but, Gob, I saw your mom and she had this letter for you...”

I hand it over and Gob brightens, sticking it into his pocket. “Thanks! I hope sometime Moriarty will give me enough time to write something back to her. Er... but... I'm sorry to hear that. I think I'm missing something, though, how did you get hurt?”

“I'm getting to that,” I say. “To make matters worse, I got alone with him, was starting to think that he might be into me, and then... uhm... I found out he wasn't. Very, very explicitly.”

I point to the side of my head and realization dawns on Gob's face. “Oh.”

“Mm,” I agree. “So then we had a fight, I bit him, he threw me across the room, and then I ran off and here I am.”

“You _bit_ him?” Gob asks in disbelief.

“Hey, if it were the right guy, he might find that really kinky,” Nova says. “Guys have asked me to do weirder things...”

“It was in the heat of the moment,” I say defensively.

“Could it... could it have been a misunderstanding?” Gob asks.

“Oh, I think I made it pretty clear what I wanted,” I say. “I don't get it. Do ghouls not like smoothskins or something?”

Nova and I both look at Gob, who raises his hands. “What, you're asking _me?”_

“You're a ghoul, aren't you?” I demand. “Come on, if I said I wanted to have sex with you right now, what would you do?”

Gob's eyes widen and he stammers, “Uhm, I-I think I would be scared.”

I grin evilly. “Good fucking answer,” I reply. “That's what I like to hear. But honestly, from a ghoul's perspective, I'm not ugly or unfuckable, right?”

He shakes his head. “I would think you were crazy, and I would be terrified, but if you insisted I don't think I could say no. Partially because I would be afraid that you'd beat me up if I did.”

“Or bite him,” Nova adds.

“Or bite me,” Gob agrees, and pours me another glass full of scotch. “So please don't take it out on me.”

“Nah,” I say. “Don't worry. I'd be afraid of breaking you.”

His face pales and I laugh at him. “Don't say things like that!”

“That's just you, though,” I say. “So you like ladies with skin, fine. If I find a girl who wants to meet a nice young ghoul I'll send her your way. But is that how most of the population thinks?”

“I'd say so. We're old. We're slower. Girls like you being interested would be incredibly flattering, if not downright miraculous.” Gob leans over and sighs. “Wish I had a smoothskin woman.”

It's hard to resist the urge to look at Nova. Now that I know that Gob likes her, it makes me feel especially bad for him. I suppose it makes sense, though, with her being a beautiful, smart woman and with them both being enslaved to Moriarty.

Nova, on the other hand, doesn't seem like the kind of girl who'd settle down with any one man, even if she weren't a prostitute.

“It's too bad he's not around,” Nova says. “I'd really like to give him a piece of my mind for what he did to you!”

I clear my throat. “Actually, he is.”

“Hm?”

“I, uh, I brought him back with me.”

Her eyebrows raise. “Oh my, now what's this? He doesn't want your body but he wants your company, is that what it is? Talk about mixed signals.”

I grimace. “Sort of.”

It crosses my mind, suddenly, that if Charon has been in Underworld since its founding, and Gob left only fifteen years ago, then they must know each other. I wonder what the son of two rival businesses would think of me showing interest in the Ninth Circle's bouncer. He would probably look at Charon with extra suspicion, knowing how much Ahzrukhal hated his moms.

“He's, uhm, living with me,” I say.

“And it gets all the more spicy!” Nova exclaims. “You bad girl!”

“E-even after all that, he's staying with you?” Gob stammers. “Who on earth did you bring? I really have to know now! Quinn? He's pretty forgiving. Snowflake maybe?”

“I'll bring him by later,” I say, ignoring the question. “You'll meet him then. We were gonna go to the bar yesterday, but, uh...”

“Is that when you had the biting incident?”

“Mm.”

All of us fall silent as Moriarty walks in. I narrow my eyes at him, and he says, “Just going to my office, kid. You don't have to leave just because I walk by you, eh?”

I get a bad taste in my mouth the instant I see him.  _God I hate that guy._ He wouldn't be so bad if, you know, he didn't slap Gob around so much. Or swear at him, or yell at Nova. He's just a jackass, through and through, and without a single redeeming quality.

“Now there's a sight that drive me to drink,” I grumble, watching Moriarty close his office door. “But unfortunately it's also made me lose my appetite.”

“It's a liquid, not food,” Gob corrects as I stand up. “Wow, you're not going to get trashed again?”

“My housemate will be pissed if I come back drunk already,” I say glumly. “Don't want to get him any more mad at me than he already is.”

“Come back before nine,” Nova says. “I think Jericho is actually serious about tonight, aren't you, Jer?”

“Huh?” the ex-raider says. “Hey, if you're talking about me, I want to know.”

“Just talking about how much of a dick you are,” I say as I pass him. “Hey, don't get Nova early, we're going to hang out.”

“I'll get her when I want to,” he taunts. “It's not as if you're paying for her time.”

“In a sense, I am,” I say. “I spend more at this bar than _you_ do, dimwit.”

“Bitch,” he spits, and adds, “I'll see you around.”

“See ya, asshole.”

 


	3. Liar

I'm reluctant to return to my house, so I spend the rest of the day helping Walter at the water treatment plant. We've been working on ways to squeeze more radiation out of the water, but it's slow going. The machines here are ancient, and the electronic parts require a lot more upkeep than anything else. Unfortunately, those are also the parts that have degraded the most over the years, and Walter is more of a mechanic and plumber than anything else. So we've been poring over old manuals together, and I help collect research journals and blueprints that I think might be able to help.

“If the town agrees,” Walter says, “I was thinkin' that maybe other folks would want hot baths, too, provided we can work out a better filtration system.”

I frown. “Mine isn't that great,” I say. “Just a charcoal filter to remove the worst of the radiation. If we wanted something that everyone would be okay with, I'd have to work out some kind of reverse osmosis system, and preferably one with an easy install.”

“That'll be good enough for most folks, missy,” he wheezes. “Nothin' fancy. We live beside a nuke, fer goodness sake.”

“I suppose you're right, but the less radiation, the better. Not everyone has enough money for Rad-Away, and I'd like to spare people what I can.” I gesture to the plans and scribbles on the desk near Walter's bedroom. “Tell you what. I'll keep looking for stuff and thinking about it, and I'll tell you what I come up with.”

“That'll do just fine.”

“Until then, let's keep the water for drinking, okay?”

I leave the filtration plant, biting my lip. Glad I decided to stay sober for the rest of the day; the booze helps me out in the wastes, but in Megaton I want to stay as smart and helpful and polite as I can, unless I'm around my friends. As silly as it is, I want people to like me, and I've always been more interested in helping people than myself. Probably why I've saved towns and killed a whole boatload of Super Mutants but haven't bothered to care about my alcoholism.

As small of a problem as it seems, baths and showers are actually a really big deal. If we use methods besides the filtration plant, which takes out one hundred percent of the radiation, then we can have a ton of excess water for things that we aren't ingesting. Examples being things such as crops and bathwater and for cleaning, all without the worry that we're going to start growing extra limbs, or have all our skin peel off like poor Gob.

Furthermore, if I can install baths for everyone, especially Moriarty, it'll bring more business and increase the demand for real estate. If Megaton gets big enough, I aim to speak with Lucas Simms about a tax collection in order to expand the walls in one area, and maybe fence off the entire area around Megaton for a collective farm.

And all because of a few baths.

Makes me glad I'd studied so much in the Vault. It'd never been useful until now, unless you'd consider the petty intellectual superiority over Butch and his dipshit friends 'useful'. My smarts certainly hadn't earned me any friends, except for Jonas, who was delighted to teach a very young Helena all sorts of things about science. And it made Dad proud.

My heart aches at the thought of him. Since leaving the Vault and talking to Moriarty, I haven't found a single clue about him. Moriarty and I got off on the wrong foot when we met, because I was so furious with him for having Gob as a slave and pimping Nova...

Moriarty won that round. I was an idealistic kid, Vault-fresh, mourning my losses, afraid in a brand-new world of hardened attitudes. He chewed me up and spat me out and hasn't been the least bit useful ever since. He's dropped a few hints about maybe knowing something about Dad, but is too petty to tell me. It's basically the only reason why he hasn't met an unfortunate end off the balcony yet.

 _Someday,_ I promise myself. _Someday._

 

When I return to my house, Charon is elbow-deep in my crate full of drugs, baggies of cocaine and heroin spread out around him. I raise my eyebrows.

“Looking for more stimpaks,” he says. “Just so that there's one handy.”

“Suit yourself,” I say. “Can I ask you something?”

“If it is conversation you desire, it is what I will provide,” Charon mutters, looking into a bag full of colored pills. “What is this?”

“Angel dust. That one's worthless. Psycho has similar effects, but it makes you stronger and faster with lower chances of addiction.”

There's a long pause. I guess that was as good of a yes as I'll ever get out of him. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, then sets them aside.

“I wanted to know why you killed the employer you had before Ahzrukhal.”

Charon doesn't look up. “I am incapable of lying to you...”

“But?”

“But I am able to mask or withhold the truth from you if I feel that the answer will not be conducive to your safety.”

“Before he died, Ahzrukhal said you were a liar.”

He grunts, and carefully dusts off a stimpak pulled from the bottom of the crate.

“Just saying, that's a bullshit answer. I'm asking you about _murder,_ and all you can do is shrug it off? I like you, Chare, but-”

He stands up suddenly, and I fall silent. His eyes are angry and bright. “Liking me is foolish and unnecessary. But you should trust me. I would much rather have your trust than your appreciation. There may come a time when you are forced to rely on me, and if you fail to do so, it may mean your death.”

“Sorry,” I snark. “I didn't know I was supposed to unquestioningly trust the cold-blooded murderer I'm living with.”

“The contract's terms demand that I serve you always, to the very best of my abilities.”

“Yeah? As if those terms are real?” I cross my arms. “Admit it, you threw in that part about the triple chocolate mochiatto yourself.”

“I did not.”

“I'm supposed to believe that pre-War military psychopaths would write something like that right into their terms and conditions?”

Charon doesn't say anything, only pulls the contract out of his shirt pocket.

“Oh, please. As if I can read any of that-”

He flips to the second page, and points near the top, along the outer edges of the bloodstain: _mochiatto._ It's literally one of the only legible words on the page.

“Whatever,” I say. “Hey, it's seven-thirty. Come with me? An old friend of yours lives here.”

Charon says cautiously, “I do not have friends.”

“Well, you'd better start making some, because you'll have more enemies than anything else in Megaton. Most people don't really like ghouls. Except the Church of Atom.”

“The pilgrims,” Charon says, and I pause.

“Pilgrims?”

He says, “The Children of Atom have visited Underworld before. They believe us to be blessed by their god.”

“They're fucking idiots,” I say. “Just seven months in this fucked up world, and I've seen enough to know the truth. _'God is dead, and we have killed him'._ That's from Nietzsche,” I add.

“Seven months?”

“Oh, wow, I never told you, did I?” I glance at him as we pass by the church and start up the hill to Moriarty's. “I'm from a Vault.”

Charon stays silent, but I can see his gears churning behind those inexpressive eyes of his. I have no idea what he's thinking about, though. “Why did you leave?”

“Long story,” I say, and we enter Moriarty's.

It's a louder night. Looks like a caravan is in town again. Nova waves to me, a little tipsy, sitting on Jericho's lap. Gob, unsurprisingly, is grim-faced and not looking at her. I can see why. Her shirt is more low-cut than usual, and it looks like Moriarty has sunken to even lower levels of degradation: Nova's wearing a golden necklace with block letters that spell 'reserved'. Cute. Looks like Jericho paid in advance.

“What the fuck is this?” I ask, flicking at the necklace hanging over her full breasts.

Nova giggles. “Moriarty got sick of having to schedule me to all sorts of different hours when caravans stop by, so he's got two different rates, 150 caps for a full night or 50 per hour. So I get to wear this when I'm scheduled for an entire night.”

Charon stops just behind me, looming at my back. I can sense his tension, the aura of darkness spreading out along with his radiation. Nova's lips curve up wickedly, and her eyes flutter.

“Ohh, and who's this? So tall and dangerous. You look like a very, very bad boy.”

Charon doesn't reply. I glance at Gob, and he's staring at the two of us, pale. Yep. He definitely recognizes him, and I don't think he's very happy to see Ahzrukhal's old pet here with me.

“Name's Charon,” I say.

Jericho scowls. “What's this, bitch? I thought this bar was for real people, not fucking bloated corpses.”

I press down on Charon's hand discretely, stopping him from reaching for his knife. “Got a problem, asswipe?”

“Just wondering why you've got a goddamn rotter following you around like you're some fresh piece of meat. He looks half-feral already.”

Charon growls softly. Jericho swears, dumping Nova off his lap. “Are you serious? If that thing makes one more noise at me, I'll...”

“You'll what?” I ask, my eyes challenging him. “Fight me? Shoot me? Because that's what you'll have to do. He's my enforcer and my slave. I own him. You mess with my property, I'll fuck you up.”

Jericho smirks and relaxes, pulling Nova back onto his lap. “Damn, you've gotten pretty wild, bitch. And here I thought you had a problem with that dumbass behind the bar being in chains.”

I don't dare look at Charon or Gob. _Shit, they must be thinking the worst of me. But it's all true. Charon is my slave, technically, although he denies it._

“Gob's my friend,” I say. “This guy's a weapon. There's a pretty big difference.”

Jericho nods slowly. “And so that's why you're taking him with you instead of me?”

“He's also not a total fucktard,” I spit. “He doesn't cuss me out, drink like a fish, or stink worse than a dead mole rat at high noon, _which you do.”_

Jericho takes this in, and then looks at Nova. “Well, what do you think, baby doll? Think I should tolerate this?”

Nova's hands press against his chest, slowly working down towards his waistline. “I think you'd better take me upstairs before you get yourself too worked up, big boy.”

The ex-raider leers and tosses her over his shoulder, eliciting a high-pitched shriek and giggle from Nova, before hauling her upstairs.

Goddammit. They're both drunk. Thank god it's loud in the bar tonight, or else I'm afraid I'd hear the sounds of their merrymaking.

Charon relaxes slightly, his hand still hovering near the hilt of his combat knife.

“Ex-raider,” I explain. “Name of Jericho. Hates ghouls more than anything else in the wasteland. Son of a bitch, but he's okay to drink with. The girl was Nova. One of my friends.”

“A prostitute,” Charon says.

“Yes. She's a slave,” I say. “And so's Gob over there. Sorry if I offended you at all with that. It was the only way to get him to back off.”

“You may say anything about me you like,” Charon says. “I am your employee, and yours to command.”

“Right,” I say, giving him an uncertain look. Still don't think he's very happy in here. It's louder and more wild than the Ninth Circle, and the inhospitable greeting has put him on edge.

I sit down at the bar and pat the seat beside me. Charon sits obediently.

“Heya, Gob.”

“Hello,” he says, pouring my usual and sliding it across the counter. His washed-out eyes flick to my left. “Hello, Charon.”

My slave doesn't reply, only staring at Gob as if he's assessing the poor ghoul for signs of a threat. Gob cowers under his gaze.

“What's your drink, Chare?” I ask, hoping to divert his attention.

It works. He says, with more than a little superiority, “I do not drink.”

“No shit!” I exclaim in surprise. “Are you serious?”

“Protecting you will require a clear mind,” he says dryly. “It is nearly more than I can manage already.”

“Wow,” I say. “Hey, Gob, what kind of drinks do you serve to pussy-ass bitches? Brahmin milk? Mutfruit juice?”

His eyes widen, horrified that I'd be insulting the rather intimidating ghoul, and squeaks, “We... we have water...?”

“Irradiated,” Charon requests.

Gob brings a glass full, hands shaking badly enough that I'm astonished he doesn't drop it.

“Anyway, Gob,” I say. “So this is the guy I was telling you about.”

He ducks his head, then says reluctantly, “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, huh?”

“Quinn was a good guess, though,” I say. “I'll give you credit for that.”

“You bought his contract...?”

“For five thousand caps,” I say. “Yeah. And Ahzrukhal is dead.”

He grimaces. “I can't say I'm sorry to hear that...”

“What the fuck?” I exclaim. “Did no one else like him? I liked him. He was a good bartender. No offense to you, Gob, you're okay, but that guy was _inspired.”_

“No one liked Ahzrukhal,” Gob says. “He was crooked and violent. He hinted to Greta several times that he'd have her killed if she kept taking his business.”

I decide not to mention that he asked me to do that as well. I don't think I'd raise in his estimation of me if he realized he'd done that but yet I still liked the guy. Hey, the wasteland is a harsh place. I quickly found out that if you don't become the baddest of them all, you won't survive out here.

“And,” Gob adds, “if anyone had a cause to want to kill Ahzrukhal, it'd be Charon.”

The ghoul beside me nods.

“Oh yeah? Azzie mentioned that you guys had beef. Something about 'chains being earned'. Is that something you're going to tell me, or is that yet another thing that I'm not allowed to know for my own good?”

Gob opens his mouth but quickly shuts it when Charon shakes his head.

“Seriously?” I growl. “I _own_ you. Why can't I know a damn thing about you?”

“You do not own me,” Charon corrects quietly. “And it is because I do not want to say anything that might jeopardize your safety.”

“No. Bullshit-” I protest, but I come to a halt as the rest of the bar quiets down.

Lucas Simms is standing at the door, thumbs in his belt loops, conveniently close to his pistol but still showing a nonthreatening posture. His eyes sweep over the room and then stop on me.

_Shit._

I stand up gracefully and give him my best smile. “Hello there, Mr. Simms!”

Charon makes a strangled noise as my voice raises an octave and rings out cheerily across the room. Gob doesn't say anything. He's seen my abrupt attitude changes before.

“Helena,” Lucas says. “Having a nice evening?”

“Yes, sir,” I reply brightly. “Just relaxing with my friends. Is there a problem? Did you want me to do anything for you?”

“Leo Stahl stopped by, said that you'd brought in a ghoul,” he says, nodding at him. “Now, you know I have no problem with ghouls in Megaton, but it might become an issue if people are worried.”

“Oh,” I say, with calculated disappointment. My voice is soft and shy and sad. “Well... I guess if it's really that big of a deal, I... I'll have to move to Bigtown with him... you see, he doesn't have anywhere else to go, and he needs someone to take care of him...”

“I'm sure that won't be necessary,” Lucas assures me. “I just wanted to make you aware. He's not going to cause any problems, right?”

“No problems,” I chirp, holding my hands up. “Charon keeps me in line more than anything else.”

“If you say so,” Lucas says, the corner of his mouth twitching at that. I'm sure he's thinking, _As if the Hero of the Wastes would ever misbehave!_ Ah, Lucas. If only you knew. “However, can you keep him from carrying a weapon inside the town limits?”

Charon tenses at that, as if Lucas is going to take his shotgun from him right that instant.

“Sorry, sir,” I say. “I actually have him along for my own protection. You see, not everyone's happy about what I do around here, and I've had mercenaries coming after me...”

“I understand,” Lucas says with a frown. “Alright. Well, you just take care of yourself, okay? I'd hate to involve myself with you for something that your ghoul does.”

“Charon's a lamb,” I say sweetly, taking hold of his arm.

Lucas hesitates, looking between the two of us. I can only imagine what kind of expression my ghoul must have. His arm is rigid, the hard lines of muscle pressing into my chest.

“Right,” Lucas Simms says, and tips his hat. “Take care now.”

I blow out a long sigh as he leaves Moriarty's, and release Charon's arm. “Damn and fuck it. Should'a known that someone would get bitchy about it.”

“He is a person of authority here?” Charon asks slowly, apparently deciding not to ask about the voice changes.

“The mayor _and_ sheriff,” I say. “Some goddamn cowboy type. Nice guy, really, but too many rules. Instant I do something weird he's all over me, trying to figure out what I'm up to.”

Gob coughs, covering up a laugh. “Charon needs someone to take care of him? Is that seriously what you said?”

I grin. “You heard me.”

“You really lay it on thick,” he says in admiration. “I would never believe it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn't work quite as well when I'm drunk,” I say. I hesitate, then drop a few caps on the table. “It was fun, but maybe we'd better go back. Don't want to cause too much of a stir the first week we're here.”

 

Fortunately, it seemed to have been the right move. As soon as we leave the bar, Charon relaxes, his shoulders loosening. It's dark out already, and towards the east I can see stars beginning to shine at the darkest edges of the horizon.

One thing I can say, at least, is that the wasteland is beautiful. Hellish and unforgiving, ruthless and relentless, but it has beauties that I was only able to imagine inside the Vault. If I had the chance to go back with Dad, I don't know if I'd be able to. I think, maybe, that when I find him, I'll ask him to stay with Charon and I in Megaton.

“You okay, Charon?” I ask.

“I am fine,” he rumbles.

“You seemed nervous.”

He doesn't reply, which only confirms my suspicion. Could it be that he's edgy after staying in the same area for so many years?

“You don't miss the bar, do you? In Underworld?”

He shakes his head quickly.

“Do you miss any of it?”

“That is irrelevant,” he says.

“Not to me,” I say. “Look, I know I'm not the nicest or most fun person to be around, but I'm not a bitch 24/7. If you ever wanna go back and reminisce, or see someone, just tell me. I like Underworld too. I won't mind going there.”

We're quiet for the rest of the night, even as I start on my evening routine, changing into soft shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Charon sits on the sofa and cleans his shotgun while I brush my teeth, not looking at me or saying anything even though I'm watching him.

It's only when I'm completely ready for bed and sit beside him that he responds.

“I do not miss Underworld,” he admits. “But I think I would have wanted to stay there under different circumstances. Under a different master. Having begun there willingly instead.”

I close my eyes, sleepy after the stressful day. Damn. Amazing how social pressures get me more worked up than battles. “Charon?”

“Yes, Helena?”

“Let's go back sometime. No business. Just stay there for awhile and relax. Would you want to do that?”

“I will do anything you ask of me,” he says.

“Good,” I say, beginning to fall asleep. “Then that's what we'll do.”

 


	4. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LW and Charon explore some deep holes together.

I wake up in the middle of the night, and I'm not sure where I am at first. The room is pitch-dark, aside from a tiny light coming from the other room. I sit up quickly and realize I'm still downstairs, on the sofa. There's a blanket tucked around me.

I smile and snuggle back down into it, pleased. Charon must have put it over me. _God I wish I had been awake when he did that._ Although I'm not sure I'd have been able to resist doing something stupid, as usual. So I guess it's fortunate that I hadn't been awake, or I'd have ruined the moment for sure.

Charon hears my movements and kneels by my side. “I am sorry,” he whispers. “I did not mean to wake you.”

“You're fine,” I murmur, stretching. “What are you doing?”

“Taking advantage of your library,” he says, gesturing to the precariously-stacked books all around the room. “I hope that is acceptable. You are safe at the moment, so-”

“Of course,” I say. “Jesus. I don't expect it to be the only thing you ever do or think about.”

He is only looking at me, and I can't see his expression in the darkness.

He says, “I would have carried you upstairs, but I was afraid that I would wake you.”

I feel the back of my neck get hot, and a silly, stupid feeling rises in my chest. I hide my blush under the covers. “It's okay.”

I wonder how long he must have sat there beside me as I slept, if he watched me at all. I hope that I wasn't snoring or drooling; ideally, I would have had a beautiful, relaxed expression, my lips slightly parted, inviting his own to mine...! _As if Charon would ever want to kiss me. He's not interested, remember?_

Ugh. This stupid crush of mine is getting worse day by day. I need to figure something out, soon, or else my dumb heart is going to break in two.

“Charon,” I say softly, “have you ever been in love?”

I don't know where the question comes from, but it doesn't seem to startle him. He's looking back down at the book in his lap, seated a few feet away, closer to the light in the kitchen.

“Yes,” he says idly.

I sit upright, suddenly wide awake. “What? Are you serious?”

“Pre-War,” he says. “My memories of that time are fogged, but I believe I was in love then.”

I lay back down, my contented bliss completely shattered. I'm angry at myself for thinking this way—of course Charon has the right to love someone else, especially an unconditioned Charon two hundred years ago, long before anyone had ever heard of a ghoul. He would have been a normal man then. It wouldn't be outrageous if he'd had a girlfriend or a wife.

 _Helena,_ I groan to myself, _you're jealous of a woman who's been dead for longer than you've been alive._

But instead I say, “What was her name?”

“I do not remember. Neither hers nor my own.” He finally looks up, reluctant. “Does it matter?”

“You don't remember your own name?”

“The only meaningful one I have is 05629,” he says. “The subject number given to me when I underwent my training.”

“Shit,” I say, not thinking of anything else. I am horrified. How could someone have done something so terrible, inflicted so much pain and torture that Charon couldn't even think of his own name? “I'm sorry.”

“It was long before your time,” Charon says, his attention returning to his book.

That's another thought. Maybe Charon doesn't like me because he's so old? I must seem like a baby to him. Charon's literally one of the oldest people in the entire world. It's a little disconcerting because he doesn't look or act old. He feels like a man in his late twenties or early thirties, which is maybe around the time that he was turned into a ghoul. I guess that means that he's even older than Carol.

_Goddamn._

I sigh.

Charon looks up again, beginning to sound a little irritated. “Would you like me to turn the light off?”

“No,” I say. “I was just thinking. Uhm... do you mind if I stay down here? I don't feel like moving.”

“It is your home,” Charon says. “Do as you please.”

Not really. If I did 'do as I pleased', I'd be on the floor beside him, using him as a pillow. Or better yet, he'd be on the sofa here with me.

But I don't voice any of that. “Good night, Charon.”

“Sleep well,” he answers, and my eyes are closing as I hear the turning of a page.

 

The next few weeks pass with agonizing slowness. I've more or less given up on Charon ever wanting me, citing the many reasons why he doesn't want me, why it wouldn't work out, but it never makes me feel better. Instead, I feel myself longing more and more, and to my despair, it's turning just as emotional as it is physical.

The longer I stay with Charon, the more good things I see about him. For example, the way he scowls when he pulls the trigger of his shotgun. The easy way he relaxes at home, leaning against a wall, with a book about guns or war or history spread in front of him. The glint in his eyes when I suggest we go out hunting for slavers. The rare moments that he finds something amusing, and lets a short laugh escape him; how tall he stands when he scans our surroundings for any dangers that might threaten me.

It's infuriating, because the last remaining rationality I have reminds me that he killed both of his previous masters, that he's a liar, that he won't tell me about his past. Yet I still can't stop dreaming about the feel of his arms, his broad chest, the heat of his skin, and those petrifying gray-blue eyes.

“Quit your daydreaming,” he growls, as we crouch atop a limestone outcrop. Several mole rats sniff the grass a few yards below us, and twenty yards away a lone wild dog sits patiently, watching the rats for signs of weakness.

“I'm not,” I lie. “I was just... planning our attack.”

“There's nothing to plan,” he grumbles. “We're on higher ground. We shoot them. They die. We go into the cave.”

“Hamilton's Hideaway,” I correct. “It's not wholly natural. It was dug out.”

“Cavernous formation, then.”

“ _No._ A formation suggests that it was created through natural causes, over millions of years, via running water washing away trapped mud and causing erosion of the limestone-”

Charon's firing interrupts me, and I bite off my last few words and focus on the mole rats. The creatures are slow to react, running only a short distance before inspecting their dead brethren. Their inaction allows me to snag the last one before Charon fires. Its head explodes in a bloody spray.

“Got it,” Charon grunts, reloading.

“What the hell? No. That one was all me.”

“I fired right at the same time as you. Some of my buckshot had to have hit it.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, after it was already dead. What's this all about? Feeling inadequate when faced with my impeccable accuracy?”

Charon nails the snarling wild dog, right before it starts up the hill towards us. He smirks. “Inadequate?”

“Oh, shut up.” I stand up and slide down the hill towards the entrance of the hideaway. “Coming?”

“Wouldn't miss it,” Charon grunts, right at my heels. “Red said that there were raiders living in here, correct?”

“It's not as bad as Muties,” I say, “but if they're concerned about something I want to take care of it. I'm the only defender they have. I don't trust the robots to hold up against a real attack.”

It's true. Arefu has the vampires, Megaton has a large number of men who are handy with guns—Billy Creel, Jericho, Lucas Simms, along with the guys who are decent enough to provide support, like the Stahl boys and even Moriarty, if things were that desperate.

Bigtown, though, they're really in need of me. Charon doesn't seem to be as annoyed by them as I am, and he seems to enjoy helping take care of them. Personally, I think he's just so happy to be doing something helpful instead of watching me get drunk at the bar that he over-values it.

We creep into the hideaway, and I pause him for a moment, listening to the dripping stalactites and echoing sounds deep inside—hell, whatever. So it's a cave. I'm not going to tell Charon that though.

I motion him onwards, and I let out a muffled curse as my hip bone bangs into the metal guard on his thigh. “What the hell?” I whisper. “Get behind me.”

“I don't like the look of this place,” Charon mutters. “You will follow _me.”_

“Yeah, right!” I growl. “I want to see what I'm walking into.”

“It wouldn't be a problem if you were more perceptive.”

I elbow him hard, but it doesn't even knock him back. It needles me that he's right. And I don't ever allow him to be right. “Get out of my way!”

“I am here to protect you, not allow you to charge into an unknown situation!”

“Oh yeah? How about you-” I'm about to tell Charon, very specifically, exactly what he can do, but there's a shuffling that grows from an unnoticed noise in the background to a steady clacking.

“Radscorpion!”

I swear and my fingers fumble at the trigger guard. “Dammit!”

Charon shoots it, and most of the buckshot bounces off its steely exoskeleton; I fire five times until it's finally down.

“Alright?” he asks me.

I check myself over. “Almost got my foot,” I say. There's a deep slash through my boot, with surgical precision. It's eerie, how clean of a cut it is, how close its pincers came to taking off a few toes. My sock isn't even damaged. “But I'm fine.”

Charon growls. “This is why I should be leading you.”

“There wouldn't have been a problem if you weren't arguing!” We glare at each other for a few more moments, and then both of us move at the same time. There's a brief struggle, and then I yelp as my foot slips off the edge of the metal walkway.

Charon pulls me forward instantly, tight against him. A tremor runs through my body. Adrenaline rushes through my blood, making my heart beat fast, filled with irritation with my ghoul, terror from the unexpected near-fall. And now his hands are on my back, and my hips are pressed against his. Our eyes are locked, and I can tell that he's just as surprised as I am.

My throat works as I try to swallow—I can't. I want him, here, _now,_ more than I ever have before. My heart is burning, my lips heated, my groin aching. I want to reach up and kiss his scarred lips, tear off his shirt, and fuck him right against the railing.

“You alright?” Charon asks hoarsely.

“Mm,” I grunt. I don't trust myself to speak. He lets go of me and I back up, my knees weak. _Shit. I can't take much more of this._ If this keeps on going, he's _definitely_ going to get me killed.

There's no way he wants me back. He must be disgusted by me, my unladylike desires—especially after seeing how I behave when drunk, aggressive and demanding his body.

He's a pre-War guy, from a time when this stuff wasn't so relaxed, when people were too proper to want to screw in a cave filled with enemies. A time when the majority of the population was Christian, and America had core family values. He's carrying morals and ideas with him that have died with the rest of his generation, two hundred years ago.

“I'll go in front,” Charon says quickly, and this time I don't argue with him.

Hamilton's Hideaway doesn't have much to it, although the layout confuses me. We happen upon two more radscorpions, a few radroaches, and it's only when we go deeper that we hear the raiders.

“How the fuck do they get past the radscorpions without getting mauled?” I whisper.

“Shh.”

Charon and I creep forward, and I'm ashamed that my body hasn't cooled down much. My eyes are on his ass, loving the way the leather sticks to his body. I've always been the kind of woman who's bold enough to stare at the front—figured that if I can have the balls to check out a guy's package, then who cares about the back? But his ass is pretty cute.

“...anymore Jet left?”

We can hear the raiders now. Three of them, a woman and two men.

“Nah,” a man replies. “You took the last one. Greenie's gonna go Psycho with me and try to find some more.”

The other raider snorts. “Where, Arefu? Only place close enough, unless he's gonna go down to Bigtown and try to climb the fence. An' if he's on Psycho I don't think he'll be smart enough to try that.”

“Caravan's passin' by soon. He's gonna try to get it off of them.”

“Better take some myself, then,” the woman says. “Else you and that lil' bitch are gonna die out there. They've been more heavily armed recently.”

“Seein' anything weird yet?” the second man asks.

“Radroaches on the ceiling. That's the worst of it. They're in the corners of my eyes and skitter away on their nasty black feet when I look at them.”

“Anything good?” the woman asks.

“Well, you're buck-naked and your tits are twice as big, so... yeah.”

They laugh and the second raider says, “That shit's good.”

“Long as you stay calm, anyhow. When he starts fighting, my bigass tits are probably gonna turn into dicks or something.”

“Or maybe you'll just look like a Deathclaw with tits.”

“Hey, not far off from the truth,” the other male raider says, and they both laugh while the woman protests indignantly.

Charon nudges me, and I nod. I don't like listening to the raiders for too long either. Reminds me that they're people. And since I had a horrible trip with Psycho too, I feel a bit of empathy for them.

But not enough. I lean over, barely into the doorway, and aim at the female raider. The bullet spray splatters her brains out on the wall and the raider on Psycho screams in horror. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck-”

Charon puts him out of his misery, and the remaining guy, apparently sober, is swearing loudly and staying behind the generator in the middle of the room.

“Come on out, darlin',” I call seductively, adopting my best imitation of Nova. “I just wanna play with you a little.”

“Fuckin' bitch!”

“Stay civil, hon, or else I'll make it slow.”

The raider stays behind the generator and fires blindly at the doorway. I wait a second, then skip out and hide on the other side. Charon makes an irked noise.

 _Ugh, this is just like the situation with the truck and the raider with the crowbar,_ I think. _Just hope it doesn't end with Charon shooting me._

I give him a quick motion and he kicks an empty shell across the room. I hear the raider's sharp intake of breath and know that he's distracted. I slip around the other side and he's only just turning around towards me when I empty my M1 into his chest. He sinks to the ground, gurgling.

“Guess it was fast anyway,” I mutter, going through his pockets. Caps. A pencil. A baseball in his bag. A porn mag, a recent edition. One of the only genres of literature still in print. Apparently there's a press up north that does these racy editions of all kinds of wastelanders—raiders, beautiful city women, tough village girls pretty enough and desperate enough to spread their legs for a camera. It grosses me out.

“Want to take a look?” I growl as Charon looms over me. I hold the magazine up.

He recoils. “I'd rather not.”

Huh. So apparently he's not interested in women at all, or again, it's just that it's too blunt and racy. Whatever. I'm just glad he didn't go for it.

The last thing in his pocket is an unused dose of Psycho. I'm debating whether or not I should pocket it when Charon says, “Didn't Barrows tell you to stay away from that?”

“He did,” I say. “But it sells for a good bit.”

I decide to add it to my bag, then stand up. “You check the others?”

He frowns. “Of course not.”

Despite traveling with me for over a month now, he still refuses to touch corpses. I sigh and go about taking their caps and drugs. The woman has ecstasy, a rare delicacy in the chemical buffet that the wasteland has to offer. One of the last drugs you go to when everything else is burned out, and you need a fast release with a partner, knowing that you'll never feel as good again.

“Glad I found this,” I say. “I'd hate for someone else to get hooked on this shit.”

“If that's true, then why do you collect it?”

“Trophies? I dunno.”

Charon waits for me by the next doorway. “The raiders said there was one more man.”

“Scout ahead, then,” I say. “I'll finish up here.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unscheduled chapter for a handful of reasons:  
> 1\. It's my friend's birthday  
> 2\. I got through a roadblock in Part 3  
> 3\. AND BECAUSE THE NEXT CHAPTER CONTAINS SMUT
> 
> I've never written smut before, like, EVER, so I'm quite worried about it, but hopefully you guys can struggle through it if it sucks. Come back on Thursday if you wanna read it! Or, uh, just skip Chapter 5 if you don't wanna read it. It's okay. I will not be offended. o///o


	5. First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All hail the smut.
> 
> Apologies if it sucks--first time writing anything like this!

We clear Hamilton's Hideaway shortly afterwards, and I leave a very happy woman, having found two bottles of vodka and three bottles of scotch. Charon follows me, my silent shadow, all the way back past Bigtown and into Megaton. I drop him off at the house and draw a bath, then order him to clean up while I visit the bar.

“You can come over when you don't smell like a freaking _man,_ ” I say, throwing a clean shirt at him.

“Is there something wrong with smelling like my gender?” he asks in mild amusement.

“Men smell disgusting. Like _ass.”_

“Very well,” he says wearily. “I will not be long. Please keep yourself from unconsciousness until I arrive.”

“Will do,” I promise. “I'll stay on my first bottle until you get there.”

I can hear him grumbling as I leave the house, but I ignore him along with Wadsworth, who wishes me a pleasant evening. My excitement and aggravation is building simultaneously as I skip up to Moriarty's, and flash a cheerfully obscene gesture at the man himself before I enter his establishment.

“Hey, if it isn't my favorite drifter!” Nova calls from her usual spot, the wall closest to the bar's bathroom. She sits down with me and Gob hands over a bottle.

“Your usual,” he says. “You seem cheerful. More than I can say for myself. Moriarty's been really awful lately.”

“We're definitely glad to see you,” Nova agrees. “Business was slow the past week.”

“Sorry I couldn't help,” I say. I was up in Bigtown the whole time, helping out.

Nova leans in close, batting her eyes at me. “So...? Where's your _man?”_

“Washing up,” I say. “I wanted an excuse to talk to you guys without him breathing down my neck.”

“Oh? You have some kind of news for us? Something you can't share with your darling?”

I shake my head. “I need more advice with him. He's so uninterested in me, I could scream.”

Nova and Gob exchange glances. “Actually, we were just talking about that,” Gob says hesitantly. “Er... Nova was wondering about why a ghoul wouldn't want... uhm... wouldn't want you, and I was thinking...”

“Yeah?” I ask impatiently.

“Well, every time you've started anything, you've been drunk, haven't you?”

“So?”

Gob sighs. “Just think about it a little harder, won't you?”

I open my mouth, about to let out some kind of dumb retort. Close it and then stare.

Drunk.

I was drunk when I met him and invited him into my bed for rough sex; I was drunk when I raged at him and bit him because he refused to sleep with me. In fact, if I can help it, I'm drunk whenever possible. I'm stricken with silence. I  _know_ that he doesn't like my drinking, but I've always laughed it off or ignored his complaints, picking my battles. My alcohol is both a hobby and a lifeline. However...

Could that seriously be why he stays away from me? Does... does he think that it's not genuine? Just... just the heated desires of a woman, twisted and needing an outlet on anyone or anything?

Nova shrugs uncomfortably. “He's right, isn't he? I know that drunkenness is kind of a permanent state for you, but with an old-fashioned guy like that, he probably thinks that he'd be taking advantage-”

I stop listening. _Oh my god, I think they're right._ Given his background... it wouldn't be surprising. And he has that dumbass moral code that... ugh... probably wouldn't include fucking drunk women. Dammit.

I stand up.

Nova snorts. “What, you forget something to do?”

“Yes,” I growl, and storm out of the bar.

 

“Good evening, madam-”

“Shut up,” I snarl to Wadsworth. “Power off or something.”

The robot mutters something, almost audibly, and goes into sleep mode in the corner. I stomp up the stairs, and, hoping that he's left the door unlocked, throw open the door to my room.

There's a startled yelp and Charon covers himself right before I see anything, apparently seconds away from getting into the bath.

“What-what the hell?” he says, understandably alarmed. “Is something wrong?”

I glare at him, then shove him as hard as I can. He stumbles back, barely holding onto his towel, and falls onto my bed.

I poke him in the chest. “You, you piss me off.”

“What?” Charon says, aghast. “Helena, if you have a problem with something that I'm doing, tell me, but please, now is not the time-”

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” I snarl, and slide myself onto his lap, pushing him down, my thighs locked around his hips. My hungry lips meet his, softly, the most gentleness I have ever shown him. Charon's breath heaves out against my face, hot and furious and alarmed. I sit back and nearly lose my balance, not expecting to have my weight come back down to rest on a certain rock-hard something. The feel of his erection through the towel and my pants makes me tremble, and it's all I can do to not crush him.

My face is hot and I am breathing as hard as he is. I've... I've never done anything like this when sober. Not even when _drunk._ I might get excited and aggressive and seductive, but it's never progressed past kissing and groping.

“Helena...” His eyes are smoldering.

 _Shit._ I have never, ever seen him this angry.

I bite my lip, hard, and then say, “I want you.”

He growls.

“I'm giving you a chance to say no,” I snap. “Don't give me that look.”

“No,” he says, and I stop breathing for a moment. His eyes search mine, still furious. His face is about as red as mine, except, of course, his is red with fury. “How much have you been drinking?”

“I'm as sober as you are,” I say.

Charon sits up, and the movement of his hard cock against my groin nearly makes me groan aloud. I press myself close to his chest, staring into his eyes as he touches my face.

“Shit,” he says. “You're serious.”

“Lay back down,” I growl.

Instead, his hands come to rest on my hips, and they slowly close into fists as he shakes his head, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “You don't want this.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I'm sitting on top his dick, three layers of fabric away from penetration, and he's telling me no?

“You're young,” he says. “I'm a ghoul. I've protected you, saved your life. It's natural that you might develop some sort of affection for me, but-”

“That's what you think this is?” I growl. “Some kind of... of idiotic misdirection?”

I push him again, and he lets me press him into the mattress, all of my weight shoving his shoulders down. I shift slightly, and he lets out a small gasp. So. It feels as good to him as it does to me.

“You're-” he groans as I lick his torso- “you're going to regret this.”

“Am I?” I ask sweetly, sitting up. My back arches a little, and my full weight bears down on his groin.

“Mm,” he agrees, growling again. “As you remember, you can't give me any orders that are physically impossible for me to follow. So if you tell me to stop, I won't be able to.”

I grin, baring my teeth at him. “Prove it.”

Charon's breath huffs out, and he grabs the front of my shirt and rips it down the middle. I shudder at the violence of the action, the sheer _want_ behind it. His eyes are glittering and fierce, and I suddenly realize that what I mistook for rage was lust.

I stand up, and he growls again, but I'm only moving to whip the towel off. There's a slight pause as I stare.

Charon smirks and laces his fingers behind his head.

“Woah,” I mutter, and hurry to throw the rest of my clothes onto the pile.

I'm more cautious when I slide back on top of him, hyper-aware of his slick manhood touching my thighs. This is it. This is really the point of no return. I'm about to have sex with a ghoul.

Charon's growling again. I tip forward and kiss him again, eagerly, and my hard nipples brush against his chest as our tongues intertwine, making him groan. A hand snakes in between us and he massages my breast. I throw my head back, a flirty giggle rising in my throat. Damn and fuck. This is better than anything I'd imagined.

“You're a tease,” he whispers, his rough, calloused fingers brushing over my tender skin.

“So?” I challenge. “Do something about it.”

He grabs my hips forcefully, hard enough to leave bruises, and guides me down on top of him. I let out a long moan, equally pain and pleasure. I'm wet enough to not need any lube, and so is he, but I'm having a hard time relaxing and allowing for his girth to enter me.

Charon pauses, still pressing me down onto him. “Are... are you a virgin?”

I open my eyes reluctantly. “Does it show?”

“Dammit,” he says.

“What?” I ask, leaning down again. I kiss his neck, and I feel him twitch inside of me. _I guess he likes that, huh?_

“Your first—ugh—time? With me?”

“And no one else,” I swear, and he groans again.

“You're a goddamn fool,” he says, “but I'm not going to argue with you.”

He pulls me down again, more gently, and I let out a soft cry as he takes me.

 


	6. Arbiter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a Friday update for you lovelies! I hope you like it!
> 
> Also, I discovered the LW/Fawkes ship over the weekend, which surprised me with its adorableness. I started one of my own, entitled "Small Monsters". It's going to be shorter than this series, and a bit darker, but I plan to fill it up with a lot of hope and kindness and fluff, too. I can't promise any update schedule for it since I need to maintain my focus on this series, but I do hope you will check it out. :)

When I wake up, I'm sore, aching, and incredibly satisfied. Sunlight streams in through the cracks in the walls, and I yawn. _I... I had sex with him last night. I had sex with Charon for, like, over an hour at least._ He came within the first five minutes but stayed hard. I was amazed.

Charon is laying beside me, staring up at the ceiling. He's a lovely sight, my exotic lover. Bare-chested and muscular, the tears in his skin revealing the stark red of his musculature beneath. I pored over every inch of his skin last night, explored his weaknesses and vulnerabilities.

“Good morning, handsome,” I purr, running a hand over his chest. His skin is warm.

He lets out a long sigh, still looking upwards. “I was hoping that's what your reaction would be.”

“What? Did you really think I'd wake up and be mad or grossed out or something?”

“I'm a ghoul,” he says pointedly.

“So?” I snuggle in close, pressing my face against his ribcage. “You're strong. You're handsome. I like you.”

“Very direct, as usual,” he observes.

“Mm.” My fingertips pass over his skin, feeling the scabby, peeling edges between the wounds and necrotizing flesh. My slave, my powerful monster, my enforcer, my lover.

My hand trails down his front. “How awake are you?”

“Awake enough,” he growls, and this time it's his turn to press me into the mattress.

 

By the time we're both sated enough to want to leave the bed, it's in the middle of the afternoon. Both of us are hungry and since my house only contains Fancy Lad Snack Cakes (I do occasionally eat things like meat and vegetables), we dress and head over to Moriarty's, both of us grinning and occasionally bumping each other.

I resist the urge to slap his ass several times, although I hadn't held back last night. Megaton, of course, wouldn't appreciate their beloved Hero to be blatantly involved with Charon. Around here, the word _ghoulfucker_ is an insult that could get someone killed.

Something in the way I walk makes Nova's eyebrows shoot up, although Gob doesn't seem to notice anything. “Oho,” she says. “Well.”

“What?” I ask suspiciously.

She grins, licking her lips. “Nothing.”

Gob pours me a bottle and gives us an odd look. I'm thankful that no one else is in the bar to listen to us, because my friends are acting weird.

“Is something going on that I don't know about?” Gob finally asks.

Nova cackles. “You might say so...”

Charon shifts uncomfortably beside me, and that just makes her laugh harder.

“Well,” she says, “Let's just say that I've never seen a certain someone smiling before, _and_ little missy here looks like she's been through one hell of a night.”

Gob's eyes widen. “Oh. _Oh.”_

I blush. “Nova, seriously? Both of us are right here?”

“You did, didn't you?” she snickers. “Well. I'll drop the subject if neither of you are going to confess to any kind of _taboo sins._ But congratulations all the same.”

I cover my face, embarrassed. “Nova...!”

“Alright,” she says. “Well, I guess I'll indulge myself too. Gob, white wine?”

The bartender obliges her, glancing at me again. I think he can barely believe what Nova's saying. Maybe he thinks he might actually have a shot with Nova...? I mean, maybe he's thinking that if Charon can get together with me, and Nova's celebrating it, maybe that means she isn't so opposed.

We sit in a long, awkward silence, broken only by the sound of glasses being set down on the bar. I'm focused entirely on my drink—well, _trying_ to. The rest of my focus is on ignoring the man beside me.

“Helena,” Charon murmurs close to my ear, and my face flushes with heat. “Slow down.”

“I can drink myself insensible if I want to,” I retort, tipping the bottle back. “I want to get absolutely smashed and then kill some raiders or ferals or Muties. Anything.”

“As you wish,” he sighs.

Gob offers me a small smile, shrugging, as if to say, _Sorry that Nova had to make things awkward._ Well, I don't really blame her. She's elated, and I am too. It's just weird for me to talk about my own relationships with such candor, especially since Charon and I got together on a whim. Well—not really a whim, we both wanted it for a long time, but just that it was so sudden. Our new bond is fragile, newborn, but it glows between us, wrapping around our hearts and warming me from the inside out. It's built on the backbone of our friendship, and the contract that binds him to me.

“What's next?” Gob asks finally. “Going back to Bigtown? Or maybe finding some other town to help out?”

“Probably,” I say. “There's enough little settlements that I haven't reached or heard of that'll need a hand. Always someone who needs a doctor or a mechanic or, of course, a warrior.”

“That's so vain,” Nova says. “Just admit that the wastelanders use you as their gopher.”

“Hey, I do my best to try to like those guys!” I protest. “Actually, though, there was something I was thinking of doing first... Charon?”

My cheeks flush as I turn towards him, but he meets my gaze steadily. “Yes?”

“The contract. I'm allowed to lock it up somewhere, right?”

“Yes. That was the original plan during my conditioning. However, it must be accessible, or else it is considered destroyed.”

“Uh... what happens if it's destroyed?” I ask.

Charon says mildly, “I am bound to write a new one.”

I laugh. “Seriously? That's it? I was figuring that you'd have to blow your brains out or something.”

He frowns. “That would be a foolish reason to terminate a soldier,” he grumbles. “Unfortunately, I am bound to make the contract my first priority, so I would be unable to protect you until I finish writing it.”

I smile, getting interested. “And, so, what would happen if you weren't around anything to write with? Like, in the Sahara desert with no paper or pen for miles.”

“I would have to run until I found some, whether paper or leather or parchment, and use anything at my disposal to write it down, including my own blood.”

Charon seems to be getting a little testy with the line of questioning. His tone is beginning to sound impatient.

I smirk. “What, you think I'm going to rip it in two just to watch you scramble to copy it?”

“I would not put it past you,” he growls.

“Maybe that's how I'm going to ask for alone time.”

“Or you could simply _ask.”_

“Give me the contract.”

Charon glares at me, as if he's expecting me to follow through, and grudgingly places it into my waiting hands.

“So!” I say, turning over the bloodied envelope. “What constitutes 'accessible'?”

“I imagine that it would be more situational than anything else,” Charon says.

“You're saying I can't do something like dump it into a block of cement and throw it into the Potomac River?”

Nova giggles at Charon's sour expression. “Does that sound terribly accessible to you?”

“Okay, I guess that answers that question. What about in a safe?”

“It would be a good idea if half the wastelanders weren't lockpicking pros,” Gob says. “Traders are always coming through with things that they've found from safes.”

“As much as you test my patience,” Charon agrees, “I would be almost sorry to have to leave your company the instant I discovered that my contract was missing.”

“Oh, my darling ghouls,” I say with an evil grin, “I'm not talking about some padlock-type shit. I'm talking about the dirtiest fucking safe in the world, hidden somewhere that no sane person will want to go.”

“Spit it out,” Nova says. “We want to take a shit on your plans, like we always do.”

“No, you'll like this one,” I insist. “A four-number code on a safe, down on that flooded bottom floor of Underworld... rigged with ten pounds of a little thing called C-4.”

Nova's eyebrows shoot up. “Damn. You don't play around.”

“Wouldn't one or two pounds be enough?” Gob asks.

I shake my head. “You're not getting it,” I say. My heart is pounding with excitement at my own ingenuity. I hurry to explain, “I don't intend to just kill the person who starts trying to pick the lock. I mean to take down all of Underworld with it.”

Gob's eyes widen. “He... Helena!”

I wait for the rest of his protests as the three of them digest what I'd said. I know Gob is going to give me shit for this, but... _I'm selfish._ And this wasteland has made me a hard woman. This wasteland also gave me Charon, and I'm sure as hell not letting anything take him back.

And something else, coiled up not so deeply beneath the surface, is pleased by the cruelty of the plan.

“My mother lives down there!”

“I know,” I say.

He stares at me in disbelief.

Charon says, “You may be forgetting that it must be _accessible.”_

I'm a little amused that that's the first thing he thinks of. No sign of concern about my idea, or sympathy for his own kind. Just about the specific terms of that damn contract.

I nod. “I know. There's going to be a few people who know the code—myself, you, Charon, and after I die, Gob's mom, Carol.”

There's silence.

I continue, “It's like my will. If something happens to me-” Charon growls at this- “then I want your contract to go to Carol.”

There's another long silence, and at last he nods. “That is... acceptable.”

“But my mom! My mom is in Underworld, and you're planning on putting a _bomb_ underneath the city? To hell with you and your plan!”

Gob's face is red. I've never seen him this angry. His shoulders are tight—Gob is hardly a fighter, but I bet his fists are clenched.

“Gob,” Nova says quietly, and he relaxes a little. She looks to me. “Not to be picking sides or anything, but... I can see where he's coming from with this. It's a really fucking horrible thing to do. It's Gob's _mom._ You're saying you're willing Charon to her, but you're gonna put her life in danger too?”

“Mm... you know, when I first arrived in Megaton, I was desperate, and that's to put it as lightly as possible. I lived my entire life never expecting to leave the Vault, and...” I trail off, my throat closing up as I relive that terrible day. Charon is watching me, though, and I remind myself to not look like a sniveling little bitch in front of him.

I clear my throat. “Anyway, I wasn't sure what to make of this place. Other than Lucas Simms, pretty much everyone was shitty to me. Jericho, the townspeople, Doc Church... I came to him practically dying from my injuries and all he did was snap at me.”

I pause. “And not to be a bitch, Gob, but you kinda threw me for a loop. Having never even heard of a ghoul and then to walk in here and see you?”

I snort, remembering it, and Gob only hits me with a nasty look. I hurry on, “Anyway, the only person to actually approach me and act interested, other than Lucas Simms, was Mr. Burke.”

“Burke?” Nova sounds surprised. “I'd almost forgotten about that guy. He left _months_ ago. Right around when... oh.”

“Mr. Burke offered me one thousand caps... in exchange for blowing up Megaton.”

“You're kidding,” she says in disbelief. “That... that _asshole!”_

“He said that Megaton was a blight. I told him that he could go fuck off.” I meet Gob's eyes, who still looks angry at me. “That's the difference, alright? I'm a shitty person, I get it. But I'm not a fucking psychopath. You think I'd really put your mom in serious danger? Tell me, what are the chances that anyone is gonna go down into the very back of the bottom level of Underworld? That anyone would ever _think_ of going down there? If the locals never do it, even though ferals don't go after you guys, what makes you think that some fully-human nutjob would try it? And that they'd mow through all of the feral ghouls and through murky water and radiation just to reach a rigged safe cemented to the floor?”

Gob stares down at the glass in his hands.

“No one,” I say. “That's who. And that contract will be even safer when it's down there and I let Underworld know what's beneath them. _No one_ is ever going to let a human near that entrance. In fact they'll probably board it up.”

He says, grudgingly, “Yes. They'd be crazy not to.”

“I can see how that could work,” Nova agrees. “But do you even have the stuff to carry it out? I mean, C-4 of all things? That's pre-War stuff, you know?”

I smile, twirling a finger through my hair. “You know how the Brotherhood of Steel hauls stuff around on Brahmin to their different outposts sometimes?”

Nova's mouth falls open. “You _didn't.”_

“I saw the C-4 in a duffel bag, while I was hanging out with them and killing Super Mutants. You know. Just for a few hours of fun and looting. I'd noticed that they were keeping the Brahmin _way_ back from combat and was curious about why. Well. Turns out that if that Brahmin had gotten hit in the wrong place, we'd have been covered in it—or worse, the Super Mutants would have been covered in _us.”_

“You stole from the Brotherhood?” Gob finally asks, reluctantly. He sounds impressed despite himself.

“Mm. I offered to take up a point at the Brahmin's left when one of their guys was shot down. Since no one else was too keen on being very close to it, 'cept for the poor son-of-a-bitch who had to lead it, I had no trouble taking a peek and sneaking some out block by block.”

“You weren't, you know, afraid of getting the shit blown out of you?”

“C-4's really stable. I did some research on explosives in the Vault. I was always really curious about the weapons that helped end the world. There's a reason why the Brotherhood likes to keep it around.” I drill Gob with an irritated look. “That's also why I'm using C-4 in the safe and not dynamite. Dynamite's way easier to get, but that stuff will blow up on its own if it so much as gets _wet.”_

“Thanks for your consideration,” he snaps. “That still doesn't change the fact that you're putting my mom in danger.” The last word is punctuated by his fist slamming on the countertop, which makes me jump. That's honestly the most violence I've ever seen out of the guy.

Charon says, very quietly, “Are we going to have a problem?”

Gob pales and steps back.

“Jesus, Charon, let him have his moment,” I say. “I'd be a little pissed too, if I found out someone was gonna stick a bomb under, say, Vault 101.”

“Would you?” Gob challenges. “Because to me it sounded as though you hated the place.”

I'm struck by that. Do... do I really hate the place I had lived for almost my entire life? That airtight lockbox where my father raised me? Where Butch bullied me, where I was rejected by both teachers and peers, mocked by the Overseer, where I had witnessed Amata's near-sexual assault? The place that spat me out into this dusty land?

I say, “It's all I ever knew.”

Gob nods, shortly. “Alright.”

“Huh?”

“Go ahead, put your fucking bomb down there. I'll try to put it out of my mind.” He stops, and then stabs a finger at my chest. “But I swear, if anything happens to my mom because of you...”

I raise an eyebrow. I'm interested now, that dark feeling in my chest rearing up. I'm almost proud of Gob for finally sticking up for someone, even if it isn't himself. “You'll what? Kill me? Go through Charon and take me out too? You wouldn't have the balls.”

Gob shies away at my tone. I let out a sigh, disappointed. If he'd have said yes, I would have been really pleased with him. Looks like this guy has more work to do.

Tough love. That's how you gotta make a man like this grow. If he doesn't get some challenges now and then, something to really fire him up, he's never going to be able to defend himself. I've seen him during barfights, and it's pathetic. He cowers. And I shit you not, he cries.

I don't know what happened to him before he was sold to Moriarty, but if I ever found out who made him this way, I'll smash their face inside out with a crowbar.

I chug the rest of my drink and slam it down on the table, ignoring Gob's cringing reaction. “Come on, Charon. We have a bomb to make.”

 

“...this does not look like a bomb.”

I'm standing at the stovetop, boiling a pot filled with messy bones and fat that I'd begged off the Brass Lantern. Steam is wafting into my face and the kitchen is unbearably hot. “Cute observation, dumbass. I'm proud of you for being able to tell that it's not an explosive.”

Charon crosses his arms. “And here I was hoping that the caustic remarks would slow down.”

I'm midway through a guffaw when he continues, “I suppose I'll have to spend more nights with you until there's some kind of effect.”

My jaw slams shut and I feel my cheeks go hotter than the stove's burner. I turn away from him immediately and I can sense his smugness behind me. I'm just glad it wasn't accompanied with any physical action as well, or else I might have collapsed onto the stove, half from embarrassment, half from...

 _Enough of that._ I shake myself. Damn, is the morning after always so embarrassing for people?

He says, “That is, if you will allow me.”

I turn around in surprise, and then when I look at him my vision goes a little wobbly and I stammer, “Of-of course, you can... uhm... yeah.”

I slap my cheeks over my face as I stare into the pot of boiling bones. _Dammit, dammit, dammit..._

But Charon only laughs and retreats to the far end of the kitchen, sparing me from further misery. “You will have to explain what you are doing with that, then. I would hate to disappoint you, but this doesn't look very appetizing.”

“But don't ghouls eat anything?” I mutter to myself, thinking of the spoiled food that Greta serves. “Nevermind. So, yes, this isn't a bomb. What I'm doing is the fucking worst part of the bomb-making activity, which is getting enough collagen to create a tamper sensor.”

“You've lost me.”

“Hey, you asked me to explain. Basically, this shit is going to cook for a few more hours, and then I'm going to strain out all the bones and skin. Then it's going to boil until almost all of the water evaporates, and then I'll stuff it into some kind of encapsulation and hook a charge to it. There's other steps involved, but, basically when certain materials are acted upon, they release energy. So the collagen and the other stuff I'm going to add to it, for instance the quartz out of one of the watches that I've picked up, will set off the energy necessary to activate the charge. After that? Boom. Goodbye unsuspecting lockpickers, goodbye Underworld.”

“And you can get this... stuff... from bones?” Charon sounds doubtful.

“It's motherfucking basic biology, Chare. Pick up one of my textbooks sometime.”

He grumbles.

“Also,” I say, “yes. This is also dinner.”

“You're kidding.”

“I mean for you. You're eating this, I'm not.”

I can't resist glancing back to see his reaction. As expected, he does not look the slightest bit thrilled. I bet he's really regretting that I have his contract right now.

“And that's an order.”

He grits his teeth. “If that is your command, I am bound to obey you.”

I smile to myself. “A subtype of collagen is gelatin. It's damn good for your joints. It won't grow your nose back or anything, but you'll hopefully have less soreness if you get a steady diet of this stuff.”

He says, sounding grumpy, “I have not ever complained about my joints.”

“I talked to Gaja. And I've seen how long it takes you to get up in the mornings,” I say with a smirk, passing him as I exit the kitchen. “You can't fool me, old man.”

“Old?” he protests.

“I'll stop calling you old when I hit two hundred, okay?” I sit down on the floor and settle down with a pair of fine-tipped pliers and an array of wires stripped from ancient computers. “And watch the pot for me. Last thing we need is for you to burn it and ruin the whole batch.”

 

By the time I figure out a working schematic for my rigged safe, three days have passed. Fortunately that's also including my initial tests, using the tiniest pieces of C-4 and my early attempts at the charges. Poking at them enough (with a pole) was enough to set them off, so I'm pretty confident that it'll work.

And if not, then who's going to know? With the fear generated by the idea of this thing, I doubt that anyone from Underworld is going to let a single person get close to it.

The final result actually has two charges—one hooked to the side of the safe and the other to the keypad. It's programmed to beep if the wrong code is entered, and the vibrations from that frequency should be enough to set off its own respective module of quartz and collagen and wiring. There's a small piece at the end of the charge that sparks when the energy is released, just for added certainty. The last thing I want is for some asshole to hack the lock anyway and nab his contract.

Yeah, sure, I could just leave the contract with Charon, not even go to all this trouble. But right before Ahzrukhal died, he warned me that people might come after me in order to get his contract. I'm going to cut out all their chances before they even get them.

“This is the longest I've ever seen you sober,” Charon remarks.

“Can it.” I'm wrapping the charges in plastic, each part separated so that nothing detonates while we're hauling it down to the Museum. I've already wasted enough collagen on those practice charges, and Charon's eaten the rest of it. Grudgingly.

“Maybe you should keep it up,” he continues. “You appear to be doing well without your beloved alcohol.”

“Charon,” I say, without looking up. “What would you do if your contract stopped existing, completely, and you couldn't remember how to write it back down again?”

He's dead silent.

“Exactly.” I don't think my alcoholism needs much more explaining than that. Cheap and stupid as it may be, it's my will to live. Without a distraction to shut down all the emotion and shit and jumbled thoughts in my brain, repeating over and over, and endless cycle of my crimes and sins and my lost faith in God...

Bit heavy to explain to him. I don't know if I ever will, fully.

“Actually,” I decide, “we're going to hit up the bar on our way to Underworld. Get a bottle or two for the road.”

Charon groans.

“Yeah? Sounds good, right? I'm gonna get so fucking buzzed.” My voice is monotone as I focus on zipping my explosive pieces into a thick bag. To be honest, I really don't like touching this stuff. I _know_ it's not going to blow up in my hands, it's just...

It was actually my fear and overthinking that kept me from leaving Megaton at first. I tried firing a gun after leaving the Vault, and found I simply could not pull the trigger. Again. Again. I just wanted to fire at a fucking target on the wall, not even an animal—nothing. Once I was staggeringly drunk I killed a wild dog just fine.

I... I'm just feeling so _low_ today. All this hard work, this _being sober,_ it's driving me insane. These thoughts that circle around. Whether it's really right or not for me to plant this thing underneath a city.

Charon helps. He doesn't really understand how I feel, which is okay, but he tries to help me. He's a good distraction. Faithful to his word, he's joined me every night since, and although we haven't had any more sex except for one out of the three nights, he's a comfort to me. I'd wanted him to sleep next to me so desperately that it makes me happy just to see him. And I fall asleep with his rough hands stroking my hair or my back, soothing me into uncertain dreams. He's there when I wake up from one of my frequent nightmares, trembling from the memories of all the death and killing in this terrible wasteland, and he holds me.

“Bar, Charon,” I growl. “Now. We're going now.”

He sees the look on my face and doesn't say anything. I drain my hip flask as we walk outside. And to make the start of my day even worse, fucking _Moriarty_ is standing outside as he usually does, staring out over the balcony.

“Well, if it isn't a pleasure to see ya, girl,” Moriarty says with that same disgusting cheerfulness.

“Fuck off,” I growl.

“Shame about your attitude,” he says, and I'm sure there's a snigger mixed in with his words. “Or else you might have found your daddy by now.”

I wheel around. “What the hell? You know where he is?”

Moriarty only laughs. “Oh, no, girlie. I was just making an observation.”

“You're a real piece of shit.” I storm inside the saloon. Goddammit, that man is insufferable. He's _always_ mocking me about my father, throwing my failures into my face, hinting that he knows something. He keeps on refusing to tell me, enjoying the power he holds over me, knowing I can't do anything to him because he's my only lead to finding Dad.

Gob is standing at the bar, as usual, but he's facing the stairwell. He looks pensive. Thinking about his mom?

“Hey, Gob, two for the road? And one for right now?” I glance around the empty room. “Where's Nova?”

The ghoul turns to face me and I stop short. The right side of his face is bruised, and there's a long, thin cut above his eye. He wears a heavy grimace that suggests that this was not the only place he was hit.

“Shit,” I mutter. “Gob. What happened? Where's Nova?”

He takes a deep breath, about to speak, and trembles. Another breath. “The bar hasn't been doing well lately, do you remember when I told you that?”

“...Yeah.”

“That was a few months ago when M-Moriarty started running into some financial trouble. Started buying too much from the caravans as investment, hoping to sell it to other traders passing through. Well, it hasn't paid off. You help a lot, with your drinking, but...” He trails off, then continues, “Nova's been giving Jericho discounts.”

“Oh god.” If this is Jericho's fault... I don't know what I'll do. I would not be surprised if he decided to take out his frustrations on a ghoul. But technically, I _guess_ you could say that we're friends.

Gob says, “Yeah, exactly. I wasn't sure what Nova was thinking either, but as you know, Jericho is her most faithful customer, and she knew she'd be able to hook him if she lowered the price. Thing is, she didn't say anything to Moriarty about it.”

A sick feeling is settling into my stomach.

“Nova thought that she could make up the difference in the amount she's supposed to contribute with this discount, you know? Extra hours, trying harder to solicit customers. But it wasn't enough. And Moriarty was keeping tabs on her and demanded to know where the rest of Jericho's payments were. When she told him, he...”

A shudder runs from his shoulders all the way down his back. “He called her all sorts of awful things. He was in a mood like I've never seen, and I think he was drunk. He said that she was in... in l-love with Jericho, and that they were stealing from him. Moriarty took her by the hair and dragged her upstairs. He... he said he was going to remind her what it meant to be a whore.”

My hand is pressed over my mouth. _Oh god._

“I didn't know what to do. She was screaming, Helena, I could hear them upstairs. I've never heard her cry like that. I... I went upstairs... I thought I could save her.”

He shudders again. Poor, sweet Gob. For him to be driven to trying to help someone, put himself in danger... _It must have been terrible._

“And?” I ask quietly.

“I... the door was locked. I started banging on it. I thought...” I can see tears forming in his eyes. “I wasn't strong enough to break it down.”

“That's not your fault, Gob,” I say softly.

“I was going to run to go get you, but... I was thinking, what if he killed her? I didn't want to leave in case there was something I could do. So I stood outside, listening.”

There's a mix of hot and cold rushing over my skin. Like as if my insides are freezing and my skin is on fire. I'm light-headed. _Nova. My god..._

“When he... _finished,_ he unlocked the door and beat me up. And Nova was crying something out, but I couldn't hear her. And then he left me outside her door and went to sleep.”

I grit my teeth. _You should have gotten Charon and I._ The thought is running hot through my head, but with my head so clear, I can see why he didn't. He was worried for Nova, and as usual, crippled with doubts. And then he was beaten and left on the floor like a heap of garbage. He probably wasn't in any condition to do anything until early this morning.

Gob is crying and Charon is standing beside me, expressionless. If I didn't know him, I'd think that he was unmoved. Most of the time I can't even tell what he's thinking, but I'm sure his blood is boiling about this.

“One bottle of cheap vodka,” I say firmly. “Now.”

I don't know what I aim to do, but whatever it is, I don't want to have a clear head for it.

Gob sniffs and places it on the counter—it's not even there for a second before I pop the top and chug the entire thing.

“And Nova?” I ask, wiping my mouth.

“She's still upstairs,” Gob says. “I checked on her this morning.”

“How badly is she hurt?”

“I... I don't know.”

“Has she taken any blows to the head?”

“Maybe.”

“She might have a concussion. Listen, you go upstairs and sit with her. If anything happens, if she isn't waking up or if she gets either cold or fevered, you get Doc Church immediately. I'll bring a stimpak by for her in a few minutes.”

He slumps in relief. “Helena... thank you.”

“And when she's doing better, go stand by the nuke for a few hours. It's not as powerful as, say, a Glowing One, but the radiation will do a lot to help you.”

“What are you going to do?” he asks, his face drawn and fearful.

“I don't know yet,” I say. “I'm going to collect myself for a minute or two here, and then improvise. Sound good?”

Gob nods.

I was being honest there, too. I have no idea what I'll do. Find Lucas Simms? Try to get him to throw Moriarty out of the town? Maybe see if Jericho will help me kick the shit out of him?

The thoughts keep spinning until they finally haze out of focus, blocked by that welcome cloud of an alcoholic stupor. It doesn't take long after an entire fifth, on an empty stomach.

“Charon, please stay inside. If Moriarty comes back while I'm out, I want you to knock him unconscious and tie him up. I don't mind if he loses a few teeth, either. Don't go easy on him.”

“If that is what you desire,” he rumbles, “then it will be done.”

“And protect Gob and Nova.” That's the one thought that stays clear for me. _Protect my friends._ Just my luck that the man responsible for their injuries is the one I hate most.

Moriarty is still standing outside. His back is to me.

The door falls shut behind me, softly, and he is not aware of me.

My hand drops to the new 10mm on my right hip, thoughtfully. I could shoot him from behind and he'd die without even the chance to scream.

But I'm not that kind of person.

Not yet, anyway.

“Moriarty,” I say, crossing my arms, and he turns around. “I've been hearing interesting things about you.”

“What,” he laughs, and I can tell he instantly knows what I'm talking about. I can see the flash of fear and anger in his eyes to know that we have an immediate understanding. “From that girl? She's a liar and a whore. You'd trust her over an upstanding man like me? You don't even know half the situation.”

“You're a slimy, greasy old man,” I snap. “You're nothing close to upstanding. But even if you were? Yes. I'd trust her word over yours.”

He wags a finger. “Best not to be throwing around insults like that, girlie.”

“Also,” I say, my heart thumping, “it was Gob who told me, not Nova.”

His face twists. “That _coward!”_

He lunges forward, and I do not know whether it's to reach for the door or to attack me. Faster than I can think, I brace myself and kick back and the heel of my boot slams into his flabby belly. Spittle explodes out of his mouth from the impact and he falls back against the railing, stunned. His white hair slips in front of his eyes, and he's grunting something, but I can't hear his words over my own snarling.

“Son of a bitch!” I scream, and grab the closest thing I can reach—the rusted-out barrel sitting beside the storefront. It's a bitch to pick up, being so ungainly, but I feel an immense amount of satisfaction when I slam it over his head.

“Motherfucker!” I grab the barrel again and this time it cuts into my hands. I can barely feel it, even though blood is running down my arms. Moriarty has the presence of mind to raise an arm to try to block it, and it barely has an effect on him. I don't let go of it this time, and turn it as I swing downwards. The jagged edges slice deep into his arm, and he lets out a painful groan.

“You fucking- you thought you could- _bastard-”_ I throw it down a fourth time, putting all my strength into it, and it slams into his temple, slicing him again. I see his eyes roll back into his head as the barrel clatters onto the walkway. He's unconscious and bleeding. I can't stop. I feel as though I'm amped up on Psycho, seeing red.

 _Slam. Slam. Slam._ My words have stopped, and now it's just a grim repetition, chucking that god-awful barrel, stained red with blood and rust. There's no passion to it anymore, just a chilled vindictiveness.

By the time Lucas Simms is called and I'm dragged away from the scene, Moriarty's body is so ravaged that pieces of his scalp are stuck to the barrel. His clothing and white hair are the only way to even tell who he was.

“Slow down, girl, dammit,” Simms is shouting in my ear. “He's dead, stop fighting!”

...dead?

I guess he is.

“What the hell's the matter with you?” he snarls, and I find myself being shoved down into a chair in Doc Church's house, and my hands are tied behind my back by Leo Stahl.

I suddenly find that I am very calm.

I look at the faces around me, my jury, expressions twisted with extremes, horror and anger and fear. The Stahl brothers, Doc Church, Lucas Simms. Some of the most influential men in Megaton.

“He lost his temper,” I say, “and so did I.”

Simms growls, “You'd better start explaining real damn fast, girl, or we're gonna have a problem. You know I don't stand for murderers in my town. Never should have let you in here.”

“He tried to kill Nova,” I say. “So I killed him. Throw me out if you want. I don't regret it.”

And I don't. Now that he's dead, I feel better than I have in weeks. If I had to, I'd do it again. It might be because those small, constant worries about Gob's safety, about  _Nova's_ safety, are finally gone. 

Another part of me wonders if it's simply because I was able to kill a man.

“You can prove that he did this?” Simms demands.

“Yeah,” I say. “And Gob's hurt too.”

Well, that's not exactly true. As far as I know, his intention wasn't to _kill_ his whore or slave, but I doubt either one of them are going to stick up for that bastard, not after what he'd done, not with my head on the line.

Simms swears profusely. “Dammit, look, Helena, you should have brought him to me. Now I'm gonna have to either kill you or make you leave town. There's no point to having a sheriff if everyone's going about with their own brand of vigilante justice. We're _civilized._ We're not raiders.”

“You're going to kill me for protecting my friends?” My voice is shaking. Of all things, if I die from this, I'll be really pissed. Always expected I'd die by the hands of a ghoul or a Deathclaw, not some law-obsessed townie.

“Yeah, I just might,” he growls. “Damn! First murder in a long time.”

“Sheriff,” I say, “it was protection, not murder.”

“That doesn't require you to go that far. Knocking him out would have been good enough. The people watching you said that you kept hitting him with that goddamn barrel for over two minutes after he was dead. Probably would have gone on for longer, too, if I hadn't come running when I did.”

I don't say anything. I can't deny it.

There's an insistent knock on the door, and one of the Stahl boys opens it up.

Lucas Simms eyes snap to the threshhold.

“Confessor,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“Light shine upon you, Sheriff,” comes the Confessor's thin voice. “It has come to my attention that this lost child of Atom has transgressed. I would like to pray for her.”

“Sorry, Confessor,” Simms says, forcing back his anger at being interrupted. “But we really don't have time for this.”

I might agree with him if it wasn't me about to be shot. I've never been a big fan of the Confessor, especially since he worships a weapon of mass destruction. It's the most un-scientific, dumb fucking religion I've ever heard of. It's like a bizarre mix of Christianity and pseudo-science. And obviously I have little toleration for religion in the first place, let alone one as irreverent and idiotic as worshiping nuclear power.

“Her sins are many,” Cromwell continues, ignoring Simms. He walks forward and kneels by my side, looking up at me earnestly. “She has taken a man before his time, one who had yet to bask in the Glow. But this child is blessed by Atom, chosen by him. She must be spared. If you take it upon yourself to harm her, Sheriff, you may find yourself far... far from the light of the Glow.”

There's a sharp intake of breath from one of the Stahl brothers.

I'm surprised too. That's the closest thing to a threat I've ever heard from the guy. And definitely not what I expected. I don't know the Confessor very well, but I guess he likes me because I keep company with Charon and Gob? And, I donated a few caps to the church.

Guess that's all it takes to win the solidarity of a mad priest?

Simms looks shocked. “Er... sorry, Confessor, but... blessed by Atom? Isn't that taking it a little far? She's not even a member of your church.”

“She is beloved by Atom,” Cromwell says reverently. “Chosen above us all.”

“Get to the point, Confessor,” Simms says, finally losing his patience. “Give me a single concrete reason why she should be spared. She's a criminal, and if we're going to be fair about this, she should be put to death.”

Cromwell's eyes flash and he stands up, actually _glaring_ at Simms. “You will reap the ire of the church,” he warns. “You will not harm a hair on the head of the beloved of Atom.”

“What the hell makes her so beloved?” Simms shouts. “This is my town, goddammit, and I'm not going to let you stand in my way!”

Cromwell raises a hand, looking irritated. “Be calm. We are all children of Atom, even one as lost as you. Miss Helena, Atom's beloved, is still lost as well, but Atom pursues her, in order to bring her into the fold of the Glow. She would not take the dark prophet as her companion if this were not the case.”

“The dark prophet?” I ask. “Do you mean Charon?”

“Yes,” Cromwell says, softly. “The _vessel_ that is Atom's _holy justice..._ your lover.”

There's a shocked silence. My mouth is agape.

“Wh... what?” I croak. How... how on earth? And he'd _out me,_ in front of all these people, men who brandish the word _ghoulfucker_ as the lowest of insults, who are going to try to kill me if they find out Charon and I are sleeping together?

“Atom reveals all,” Cromwell says smugly. “Atom desires you to walk in the Glow greatly, to have sent his dark prophet to your side.”

“You're a madman,” Simms breathes.

“Ask her,” Cromwell says, simply.

The sheriff stares at me. “Are... you aren't actually sleeping with that thing, are you?”

My wide-eyed expression must be enough to convince him.

“Shit,” Leo Stahl breathes, and takes a step away from my chair. As if he thinks that it's contagious. _Ghoulfucking._ Jesus. This is so bad and so sudden that I can't even wrap my mind around it.

Cromwell unties my bonds. “She is under the protection of the church,” he says. “You will not banish her, nor harm her in any way. Have I made the will of Atom clear?”

Lucas Simms growls something but nods and storms out of the house. I'm shocked, sitting in the chair even though I'm free.

I'm... I'm outed. Motherfucking Confessor Cromwell outed me, and he saved my life.

Don't know if that's a good trade-off or not.

“Where is the dark prophet?” Cromwell asks gently.

“He's... he's in Moriarty's,” I stammer, my mind whirling. “He's protecting Gob and Nova.”

Cromwell nods. “May Atom's justice fall upon anyone who harms them,” he says.

The room is cleared out by now, so it's just myself and the Confessor, staring up into my eyes, apparently awestruck by my presence.

“How on earth did you know?” I force out the words.

Cromwell stands, smiling. “I was walking outside your home late one evening when I heard your prophet... hm... _wooing_ you towards the Glow. As a suggestion... perhaps you should close your windows before making love, eh?”

My mouth falls open as I stare at Cromwell in utter horror and shame. He'd _heard_ us? I... the windows... I remember that it had been hot the night we'd last had sex, or maybe it was just from all of our action, our bodies slick with sweat, but I'd popped open a window to let some of the cold air in...

I can feel my face blushing crimson.

He winks, chuckling, and closes the door on his way out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a nod to the in-game glitch where you can beat Moriarty to death with a barrel without incurring the wrath of the town.  
> If you have not tried it, you may want to. It's very relaxing.


	7. Saint

Charon's standing by the staircase when I return, his shotgun resting on his shoulder.

“Any trouble?”

He shakes his head.

“Good. Thanks. I'm gonna go check on Nova now. Stay put. Stuff is getting a little tense, so keep people away from us, alright? You can let Doc Church or the Confessor and his wife upstairs, but fire on anyone else who gets too close.”

“As you wish,” he says. His pale eyes follow me as I ascend the staircase. I'm sure he's gotten the gist of what's happened, surely able to hear the screams from inside the saloon. I wonder what crossed his mind as he listened to me being dragged away, my orders binding him in place. I suppose it was a good thing he wasn't able to leave, or else he would have tried to protect me, and they surely would have killed him for it.

I'm not about to tell him about the other things, though. Being outed? That's serious stuff. He needs to know, and be warned that the Church is hailing him as some kind of extra-special 'vessel', apparently above Gob, whom they also see as a prophet... But all that can wait until we're out of Megaton, and once I finish helping my friends.

Gob is sitting at the head of Nova's bed, hugging one of her pillows to his chest while he strokes her short hair. His eyes flick up to mine, worried, and he offers me a tight smile.

“Is she...” I'm keeping my voice down.

“Awake?” Nova whispers. “Yeah.”

Nova is laying in the fetal position, blankets heaped on top of her despite the heat. She's facing the wall, but she lifts her head a little as I approach.

“I have a stimpak,” I say. “Is it okay if I put it into your arm?”

“Don't want it,” she mumbles. “I want people to know what he did to me.”

I sigh. _Oh, Nova._ “Don't worry. Believe me, people know.”

She shivers. “You... you told people?”

“Yeah. After I killed him.”

There's a long, long silence, and Gob stares at me, a mixture of aghast and awestruck.

“Thanks,” Nova says quietly.

“No problem. It'll be a warning for anyone who assaults a woman in my town. I'm not standing for that shit.”

There's a long silence. Neither of them seems to know what to say to that. A few days ago, they might have laughed at me and asked what exactly I planned to do, but now they listen, grim and tense.

Jesus.

I look at Gob. “Guess that means you're free.”

“Ah... well... ghouls aren't allowed to live in Megaton unless we're enslaved, so...” His voice is tentative and awkward.

“Then I'll change the law.”

He shakes his head. “It won't work, they'll never agree to it. Even if they do, they'll... someone will sell me out to slavers, and they'll come for me, and no one's gonna help me... they'll do it when you're away...”

 _Dammit._ The poor guy is shaking.

“Listen to me,” I growl, and I clamp a hand down onto his shoulder. “If you're that scared, then... then you can belong to me. Tell them that if they hurt you, I'll do to them what I did to Moriarty.”

He looks up at me hesitantly. “R-really?”

“Mm. I'll protect you. Are you okay with that?”

He nods, blinking hard. “I'll... I'll work really hard for you, Hel—I mean, mistress.”

I roll my eyes. “Don't you dare.”

“Heh... alright. Helena. Thank you.” He looks back down at Nova, smiling sadly. “So... what did you do to Moriarty, anyway? Did you shoot him?”

“I guess you'll hear what happened one way or another,” I mutter. “No. Uhm... I bludgeoned him to death with a barrel.”

“What the fuck?” Nova croaks. “Are you insane?”

“I was angry,” I say defensively. “We had a few words, he came at me, I hit him a few dozen times. It was fine. Well, mostly.”

I show Gob the fresh scars on my hands, having just been healed up with a stimpak.

“Damn, smoothskin,” he rasps. “That's nasty-looking. What's that from?”

I inspect the raw, pink skin. It's rough and uneven, criss-crossing all over my palms and fingers, long, jagged lines. It'll get better in time, and fade away. I might feel a little bit upset about the scarring, if I were actually vain. But mostly I just don't give a fuck.

“The barrel,” I say, clearing my throat. “I didn't let Moriarty get in a single hit.”

“So, it was less of a fight and more of a manslaughter,” Nova says.

“Mm. And you're free too.”

She lets out a bleak laugh. “Yeah, without any money or any place to go.”

“I'm sure Moriarty left some kind of will,” I say. “If you really don't have a place to go, then you can live in my house. Same for you, Gob. But I'm gonna talk to Simms, see if ownership of the property can get transferred over to Nova, since she was the one wronged by this.”

“Still jobless,” she mumbles. “Don't wanna go back to being a whore.”

“Then don't,” I say. “Just do what you've done before, you know? Entertain guests, talk to men, help Gob prepare their rooms. Only difference is that you won't be staying in them.”

“Less business that way,” she says, “but I ain't arguing with you.”

“Don't sweat it,” I say. “I'll figure something out to help you both.”

I stand up, and I say, “The stimpak's on the dresser if you decide you want it. When you're feeling up to it, have Gob draw you a bath. I'm sure you'll want to clean yourself up.”

I've got memories resurfacing, thoughts of Amata whispering to me, telling me how she'd felt dirty and frightened even though Butch had never touched her. It was his threats, his gazes, his evil intentions that had hurt her. Amata was a real bitch to me, even after I'd saved her from him. Only afterwards I couldn't blame her as much. Live through something like that, it messes with you, even if nothing technically happened.

Can't imagine what Nova must be feeling like now.

“I'm on my way down to Underworld after this,” I say. “But if you ask me to stay, I will.”

Nova makes a small noise and shakes her head. “You protected me, right? Go protect your man. Or his contract, anyway.”

“Thanks,” I say sincerely. “I'll see you guys soon.”

Gob stands up, laying the pillow down by Nova's side, and she pulls it under the covers and hugs it.

“I'm sorry,” Gob says.

“Hm? For what?”

“For... for saying those things to you. You're good, for a smoothskin. Better than some ghouls, even. You're a good person.”

I scowl. “If I were good, Moriarty would still be alive. If I were good, then we wouldn't be friends, because I'd never hang around the bar and sleaze it up with Jericho. And a _good_ person sure as hell wouldn't plant a bomb beneath a city. So don't call me that.”

“You aren't _really_  bad, though,” Gob says. “Don't sell yourself short.”

The side of my mouth pulls, not really a smile nor a frown. “Whatever. Take care of yourself, Gob. That's all I'll ask of you. And take care of Nova.”

He smiles again. “I won't let anything happen to her. I promise.”

“Good,” I say, and leave the room. My chest is tight. I'm wondering about the changes in that man... the fact that he tried to help Nova either says a lot about his own confidence, or how much he cares for her. Either way, he's finding something to give him strength.

And that's enough, for now.

 

As Gob had suspected, Simms refused to change the law about ghoul residents, but he at least allows the transfer of the ghoul over to me. As if he's property.

With Nova, he's a lot more civil. He promises at least fifty percent of Moriarty's belongings over to Nova, in case there's a will, and if not, all of it is going to belong to her. He sends Doc Church over to check on her, and help verify my claims. Simms forces me to wait, but it's not long before Church comes back, grim-faced, and he only nods to him. Apparently Moriarty had been so rough with her that it was clear: Nova had been raped, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

“It's unfortunate,” Simms growls, “but I'm letting you go. With the church shielding you, there isn't much I can do. So go on your way. I'll be happy if I never see you again. You goddamn saint.”

 

I smirk at Charon as we leave Megaton behind us, bumping shoulders with him. “Didja hear that? He called me a saint.”

“I am fairly certain that it was sarcasm.”

“You know how ridiculous that'd be? I'm kind of hoping that the Church of Atom does saint me. Saint Helena. I like how that sounds. I think there actually might be one already, though.”

“Are you- ah, _were_ you Catholic?” Charon asks.

“Nah,” I say, waving a hand. “Non-denominational, technically, since the original pastors of Vault 101 were people of all different sects. I got trained in all kinds of backgrounds so that I could understand how all the old groups thought. And I was asked to research the other ancient religions, Islam, Buddhism, the Greek pantheon, Nordic legends. All of it.”

Charon grunts.

I'm not sure what he's thinking about, and I'm not going to ask, because he'd probably just give me a dirty look; but I'm pretty sure that given his background, the pre-War Charon was almost certainly some kind of Christian variant. Lesser chances of Jewish or atheist. I doubt he remembers what he was, though. And since I've given up the faith, I don't really feel like asking him if he believes in a god either.

I'm carrying the charges and Charon's got the C-4. He downright refused to allow me to carry the explosives, which I was miffed about. I mean, really? It was _my_ idea. And I _like_ explosives.

Whatever.

“Did you ever have someone come after your employer's life?” I ask. “I mean, because they wanted the contract?”

“Yes,” he says tersely.

“Were they usually successful?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess it's a good thing we're going to keep it someplace safe.”

Another grunt.

“You're not very good at small talk,” I comment.

“If it is conversation you desire, then that is what I shall provide,” he mumbles.

“Jesus, that line again? How many times have you parroted that over the years?”

“Far too many.”

I sigh. Charon's getting all prickly and uncompanionable again. I don't particularly mind. I get in those moods sometimes too, and his stoic silences are comforting. But I've got a ton of energy built up from all the excitement today. I wish he'd say a little bit more.

“...were all pre-War people as tall as you?”

Charon's eyes scan the horizons. “Don't remember.”

“Too bad. I'm pretty sure that they weren't, from what I'd been reading. But it's funny to imagine you as being short compared to everyone else.”

He doesn't say anything again, and he's beginning to look weary. I shut my mouth and look around too. I've never asked, but I've got Charon pegged at somewhere over six feet and a half feet tall. The only people taller than him out in the wastes are Super Mutants.

“Charon,” I say. “Tell me a story.”

He groans. “Are you serious? There's a raider camp two miles to the north, you know that?”

“Oh shit, new people moved into that territory?” I'm momentarily excited, then I shake myself. “Yeah, I'm serious. You're gonna tell me about the master you had prior to Ahzrukhal.”

He grits his teeth. “I told-”

“Ah, no. Don't you even start. It's an order. And I think that at this point, your argument that it'll be 'too dangerous for me to know' is moot," I say. "If you like me enough to sleep in my bed each night, you can like me enough to tell me about what happened.”

“You will no longer trust me,” he rumbles.

I roll my eyes. “Oh yeah? Well, I _don't_ trust you for not telling me, okay?”

He's silent for a few long moments, and I begin to wonder if the question was somewhat hurtful.

“Is that true?”

Well, he did ask. If he wants the truth, he's gonna get it. “Yeah,” I say, shortly. “I don't fully trust you. And you don't fully trust me. If we did, then we wouldn't be keeping secrets from each other.”

I watch his face as we walk, allowing him to keep his guard up while I observe him. His jaw clenches now and then, so I know he's paying attention to me, although his eyes are constantly checking our surroundings. “Ahzrukhal told you that I killed my former master.”

“Yeah.”

“And he said that I am a liar because it broke my contract.”

“Mhm.”

“I... yes. I stabbed him in the heart.”

I'm quiet. If that's true, then Charon should be dead. He's expressly conditioned to not be able to defy it.

“He asked me to,” Charon continues. “We were traveling through the Mall when our group was attacked by Super Mutants. And this was a little over fifty years ago, so Underworld was just being established, and the Brotherhood of Steel did not have an encampment nearby.”

I bite my lip, my heart twisting in sympathy. If he asked Charon to, then... “What happened?”

“A Centaur,” Charon says grimly. “My master, like you, preferred light armor. His stomach was unguarded, and its tongues tore open his stomach and began to devour his organs while I fought off the Super Mutants.”

I'm feeling sick.

“There was no helping him, and we both knew that. By the time I had killed the enemies in our immediate surroundings, he had almost completely bled out, and he was in grievous pain.” Charon clears his throat and his hand clenches around the hilt of his knife, unconsciously. “If I had left him be, he may have taken the rest of the day to die. His stomach and intestines were largely gone. Nothing immediately vital. It would have taken a very long time.”

“So he asked you to kill him, and you did,” I say, saddened for my ghoul. Given his reaction to recounting it, he must have been fond of this master. “Charon, that's not your fault! You _spared_ him. Saying that you broke your contract... that you're a liar...”

“It is not so simple,” he admits, and his eyes finally drop to the earth. “I was reluctant to tell you because it was I who advised him to continue into the middle of the Mall, despite the firefight around us. We were traveling with others, and I was foolish enough to believe that they could guard our backs while we destroyed the heart of the enemy. I... I led my employer to his death. I advised him, and he was foolish enough to listen to me.”

“Charon...”

“I was furious with you for purchasing the contract,” he continues. “I... I had hoped that you would stay far away from me. That way, you would be in less danger.”

I gape. “Woah, wait, you liked me back then? When Azzie sent us into the metro?”

He snorts. “I would not consider it _liking_ so much as... respect. And fondness. You are unreserved, Helena, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that you go to great lengths to help others. Despite your insufferable attitudes and alcoholism, that is.”

I shove him lightly.

“I was content to be Ahzrukhal's servant. I was certain that the shadow of death that follows me would come for him as well. It is always my masters who are faced with the worst of situations, never myself. I often emerge from combat unharmed while my employers and their loved ones die around me.”

“You're also a ghoul,” I remind him.

“Nevertheless,” he says. “I brought destruction to Underworld even as the ghouls were settling in. I led the remainder of his men into the Museum, where we killed the last of them—and the destruction also killed a number of ghouls inside.”

“How is that your fault?” I protest. “It's not like you knew that they were in there, right?”

He sighs. “I saw that it was an inhabited building. I was hoping that they would have security measures, people who would help us. Instead, I caused the deaths of innocents... including Ahzrukhal's wife and daughter, who had been ghoulified along with him.”

“Oh my god.” My hands clamp over my mouth. For an entire family to be turned like that... Ahzrukhal was pre-War as well, so... he'd had his family with him for over one hundred and fifty years. The loss must have driven him insane. _Chains are earned, never forced. Charon made some choices that landed him in my employ._ I remember that last conversation with him all too clearly.

“Ahzrukhal decided to claim my contract in order to force me to pay for my actions,” Charon says quietly. “And he did. When he found that he couldn't make me hurt myself or kill myself, he began to find other ways to torment me. Psychological torture. When I first started working for him, he would pay attention to the people I spoke to, as I was not as... concise... as I was when you met me. Occasionally he would order me to kill them very slowly, or steal from them, or mutilate their sons. Always travelers, always people who would not be missed. The few smoothskin visitors we received dwindled because of him. He viewed me as a betrayer of our kind, having lived with humans and caused the deaths of his family.

“His bar is named after me,” he adds as a grim afterthought. “The Ninth Circle of Hell was reserved for traitors, and I was its gatekeeper.”

 _My poor, poor ghoul._ My heart is breaking for him, and I don't know what to say. I can feel tears stinging at my eyes. I don't let him see them—don't need him thinking I'm weak, especially since he already knows I have nightmares.

But Charon is still speaking, the most I've ever heard from him, even after living with him for weeks. “He developed a hatred of children. He began to focus on destroying families, and constantly talked to me about his plots to kill Carol and her loved ones. Once... once we had the misfortune of having a pregnant smoothskin and her trader husband pass through, and... and once they had left, I killed the man and then the woman, by cutting her unborn child out of her stomach.”

“Oh god.” My voice trembles.

Charon stops talking, broken out of his stupor, and shakes himself. “I'm sorry, I... I didn't mean to upset you.”

“Not your fault,” I whisper. “Charon, it wasn't your fault.”

“It was my advice that killed my master and led me to Ahzrukhal,” he says firmly. “And if I do not ever answer to my crimes, then at least I should remember them.”

I stammer, “Th-that's what you think about? You honestly think about all your employers and all the shit you've been through?”

Charon doesn't answer, and I bite my lip. He's serious. He actually forces himself to think about that living hell of a life he was trapped in.

 _No wonder he killed Ahzrukhal the first instant he could,_ I think sadly. _I can't believe I liked that guy._

“And no one else in Underworld did anything?” I ask. “No one tried to stop him?”

“Most did not know,” he says, turning to look down at me with those cold blue eyes, “and all the rest were afraid of me.”

Is... is this part of the reason why Charon tries so hard to protect me? He honestly gets furious with me when I take risks. I know that it's because he cares about me, but after hearing this, it must be a hell of a lot of baggage that makes him so fierce.

I cross my arms, instead of hugging him, like I want so desperately to do. “I'll try my best not to die,” I say, ignoring the small growl from my protector, “but don't blame yourself if I do. And that's an order. You'll go to Carol, eventually, and she'll never ask you to do anything you don't want to.”

He grumbles something that I can't catch, and I assume it's something he didn't want me to hear anyway, so I ignore him. Neither one of us really wants to think about me dying.

I vow to myself, listening to nothing but the sounds of distant birds and the low sounds of mole rats in the hills around us, that when Charon and I are alone, I'm going to make him forget about _all_ of his employers aside from me. For an hour or so, anyway.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, three more chapters in JaODS left! And then onto Part 3, which is still ongoing... ugh...  
> Hey, lovelies, make sure you don't take on more than you can handle. I'm currently writing two fanfictions, as well as having a job and college classes, AND I was recently hired to write the script for a horror game. I feel like I've been chained to my desk. I know I shouldn't complain, since I signed up for all this quite willingly, but... ;_;
> 
> Please come back for Chapter 8 on Thursday! ^-^


	8. Honesty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thursday! I wanted to thank everyone for *50* kudos on Love and Other Deadly Sins! I was so excited to see that it had gone up so high!  
> Also, a big thank-you for the two kudos on my LW/Fawkes fic. Thanks for giving it a chance, even though it starts out as a LW/Jericho, even though it's darker than this series. There's a lot to be put off by, but I promise everything will turn around in the end. If you haven't read it yet, please give it a try! It will update at some point today.  
> Have a beautiful day! Enjoy the fluff.

Fortunately, the rest of the trip down to Underworld is largely peaceful—it always takes awhile for ferals and raiders to trickle back into the places I've cleared out. After all, it's not like the apocalypse has left a huge population, so the raiders coming in are guys driven in from the midwest, where it's a lot less civilized, and gangs are a constant threat. We run into one thin, starved ghoul, likely one we'd missed a few weeks ago on our way up to Megaton. It'll probably be some months before someone else decides to move in.

“We didn't bring a safe,” Charon says eventually, as we approach the Museum.

I snort, waving to Willow, who's patrolling in the distance. “Are you only realizing that now? I'm just going to pull one out from a wall or a floor or something. Hell, if it's in a good enough place, I might just leave it where it is and reprogram it.”

I've got the keypad with me, anyway. Obviously I don't want anything that uses a regular key, or else it'll be a lot easier to get into.

Winthrop strolls up to us when we make our way into Underworld—by now it's getting close to ten o'clock. We could have been here a lot earlier if it hadn't been for the situation with Moriarty.

“Look who's back,” he says, giving us an uneasy nod of greeting. “Hopefully it's not for any kind of... business.”

“Sort of,” I say. “It's no big deal though. Has tourism picked up at all?”

Winthrop makes a face and waves his hand. “A little, now that the caravans are coming through again. Unfortunately, no one's stepping up to take over the Ninth Circle. It's just become more of a common room.”

“Hm,” I say. I might be driven to help people, but there's nothing I can do about that. Although it sort of is my fault, in a way, that Ahzrukhal is dead. After what Charon told me, though, I feel a lot better about the situation. “I bet things are going smoothly for Carol, though. She's in, of course?”

“We don't exactly have anywhere else to go,” the custodian says. “Go on up.”

A kind of bitter sentiment. I wonder if he blames all humans for his problems, like most of the ghouls down here, or if it's just the Brotherhood he's distrustful of.

Well, I shouldn't think about it too hard. After all, I'm not here to improve relations.

I'm grateful to find that Greta's asleep when we arrive at Carol's Place. The motherly ghoul is tidying up her inn, replacing threadbare sheets and blankets that have been washed thousands of times. Today she's in a floral pre-War dress that reveals shriveled arms and oozing radiation burns. I can't say I blame her. If I still had injuries that bad, I'd try to keep fabric off of them too.

“Helena!” she exclaims, and wraps me in a hug. Her thin blonde hair brushes against my neck, and I breathe in the scent of cooked food and fresh cotton and something else undefinable that just smells like a mother. I hug her back.

She steps away when she sees Charon hovering behind me, the aura of menace surrounding him spreading out over the room. Her face pinches. “You still have him with you.”

“Somehow he grew on me,” I say. “I think I'll keep him around.”

Carol shakes her head, and whispers, “Didn't I tell you that he's dangerous?”

“Yeah, you did. And I know that myself, ma'am, I've fought with him plenty of times now. But he told me what happened before he was in Ahzrukhal's service, and I can't bring myself to dislike him for it.”

“And did he tell you the things that he's done?” There's an edge to her voice.

I glance back at him, aware that he can hear every word. “Yeah. He did.”

Carol sighs. “Be careful.” Then she claps her hands and seems to put it out of her mind. “Did Gob send me any letters?”

“No,” I say, and her face crumples in disappointment, sad, sagging leather. “Ma'am, I do have something to confess to you.”

She brings me over to the table in the middle of the room, pulls out a chair for me, and sinks down as if expecting to hear the worst.

“I was not entirely truthful to you about your son,” I say. “It's true that he was in Megaton, working as a bartender, with a very sweet young lady... but what I didn't tell you is that he was a slave.”

She gasps. “My son... my poor boy!”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “There was nothing I could do.”

“He's... he's dead?”

“God, no!” I recoil, ashamed that that's what she immediately thought. “I meant, there was nothing I could do to free him. Megaton... I worded it kindly when I said that they don't like ghouls there. They hate ghouls. They aren't even allowed to set foot inside if they aren't a slave.”

I give Carol some time to digest this. There's a tear that runs down her cheek, and then she finally says, “I had thought he was dead for so long. Thank you for telling me, but I'm just happy that he's still alive.”

“Mm. That's why he hasn't been able to write to you. There's just no time. He works from sunrise to sundown, and gets slapped around by the townspeople, but mostly he was abused by his master.” I pause. “Ma'am, I promised you that if anyone hurt him, they'd answer to me. And they did.”

She looks up at me, her hands pressed over her heart, her eyes wide and watering with unshed tears.

“I wanted to tell you, ma'am, about what had happened, seeing as you looked so sad about him not writing to you. He loves you and misses you very much. I can promise you that as well. And, the other reason why I wanted to tell you is because I... hm... settled business with his master, and Gob is essentially free.”

“Helena... you saved my boy?” Tears are running down her cheeks. “Is he hurt? Is he okay?”

“He was beaten up,” I admit, “but his coworker was hurt worse. His master did things to her that should not be spoken of in polite company.”

Carol catches my drift and pales. “That poor girl. My poor Gob.”

“He's dead,” I say, “and he'll never hurt either of them again. I regret to tell you this, but Gob is still technically a slave. I tried to free him, but they won't change the laws in Megaton, so he's considered my property.”

She takes my hands in her own. “Thank you, Helena. Thank you so much. Please, please take care of my son.”

“I swear it, on my own life.”

She smiles tearfully and hugs me again. “But why didn't he just return to Underworld with you? He could live with Greta and I, and we could be a family again.”

“He has his own reasons for staying,” I say thoughtfully. “You weren't so far off when you compared him to yourself and Greta. He's really in love with Nova.”

Charon makes a choked noise behind me.

“What, you didn't notice?” I ask, turning around in my chair. "I thought it was obvious."

“No,” he says, the first word since entering Underworld.

I smirk. “Typical unobservant man. So, yeah, that's why he's staying put. I asked him to take care of Nova, which he's more than happy to do. Be proud of your son, Carol. He tried his best to protect her.”

“This Nova... she's a smoothskin, isn't she?”

“Mm.”

Carol sighs. “That'll be a hard battle for my boy to win.”

“Maybe, but they're very close. They were both enslaved to Moriarty for over five years together.” I'm not sure if Nova would actually go for it, or if Gob will ever get the balls to confess his feelings to her, but I want to hope.

If Charon and I can have a stupid, impossible relationship and make it last for... what, an entire week? It's only been that long since we first had sex? Geez. It feels like a lot longer than that. I'm amazed at the easy way he's fitted into my life.

“Nova won't lead him on purposefully,” I say. “She respects him too much, and she loves Gob a lot, even if it's just as a friend.”

“Good. Then I wish the best for them.” Carol sounds tired, although her eyes are gleaming brightly. I guess that was a bit of an emotional rollercoaster for her to go through. Makes me feel kinda shitty to have told her everything all at once, even if she deserved to know.

“Anyway, you have a free bed for me?”

“Of course,” she says, and her eyes move to Charon. I immediately tense and curse myself. _Dammit, what the hell? One bed for two people? That's one hell of a way to announce a relationship..._

But Charon only says, calmly, “I do not require sleep. I will stand guard over her.”

Ah. Right. I could have slapped myself in the face. With him laying beside me night after night, I'd completely forgotten his sleeplessness. He must be bored out of his mind, having nothing to do but lay in the darkness while I snore beside him.

I pull Charon behind the partition with me as I change out of my armor. He keeps his back turned to me, ever the gentleman. Or maybe he's just keeping up appearances. Which reminds me.

“So, we were outed to Megaton today,” I say conversationally, wriggling out of my top.

“Outed?” He doesn't turn around.

“I mean, they found out that we're sleeping together.”

There's a long silence, and I don't dare turn around to look at him while I step out of my pants. I'm folding my clothes, shivering in my undershirt and panties, dreading what his reaction might be, when he finally responds.

“Huh.”

I whirl around—he's still not looking at me. “ _Huh?”_ I repeat. “What the fuck? That's all you think to say?”

“They were bound to find out at some point,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “You aren't in bed yet? Get in, the floor's cold.”

I obey him and he sits by my feet.

“Are you upset about it?” he asks.

I think it might hurt his feelings if I say yes. What should I say? Of course I'm upset, but... if I tell him that, won't he think that I'm ashamed of him? _Am_ I? An uneasy feeling stirs inside of me. It's not as if I don't like Charon, or that I don't think he's attractive, but the social stigma that being a  _ghoulfucker_ brings... “I don't know.”

“You do not have to lie to me,” he says quietly.

“...ugh. Fine. Yes, I'm upset. It's fucking stupid, but I wanted them to like me.”

“Do you regret it?”

“That's a pretty masochistic thing to do, asking these questions,” I grouch, then say more softly, “No. I don't regret it.”

“Masochistic?” he asks, and then flashes me a rare smile. “Oh, so you thought that I expected you to say yes. Do you really think I'd ask that kind of question if I didn't know the answer to it?”

I gape at him. “You... you narcissist! You just wanted to hear me say it!”

The smile spreads a little, and he seems very smug to have caught me off guard. “Perhaps I did. You can tell me again if you'd like.”

My face heats up, and I stare down at the covers on my lap, suddenly shy. “I don't regret it,” I whisper, my ears burning. He makes a quiet surprised sound. “I'm not happy about it, but I don't regret anything. Megaton can fuck off with their goddamn opinions.”

Charon hums. “I will stand guard for you,” he says. “Please sleep. You will need it.”

“...Chare?”

“Yes, Helena?”

“What do you think that Underworld would think of us, if they knew?”

“I imagine it would be largely the same reaction, though for different reasons. As you know, I am not favored here.”

“I guess we should keep it quiet here too, then.”

“If that is what you wish.”

I think about it, studying the ceiling. I think about Charon beside my side for all those nights. How he's protected me and cursed at me and saved me, so many times over and over again. The darkness of his aura enveloping me like a cloak.

“No,” I decide. “There's no need. I don't care if they know too.”

“Very well,” he says, and this time I think I can hear warmth in his tone. I fall asleep to that soft sound of his humming, something I had never heard before, and lilting songs from a very long time ago drift through my dreams.

 

 


	9. Peel

Carol offers me breakfast in the morning, and I turn it down politely. The smell of the food cooking a few yards away isn't disgusting, but from what I've heard from the other people in Underworld, it's usually not something that people with more than half of their tastebuds left enjoy eating.

“No thanks,” I say again. “I'm on a diet.”

Charon snorts behind me, and I just _know_ he's thinking of the six Fancy Lad Snack Cakes I devoured on the way down here.

“Alright,” Carol says. “Still because of the alcohol?”

“You've got it,” I say. “But don't worry. I've been doing a little bit better with it.” And I have. With Charon glaring at me or getting extra grumbly when I drink myself two feet from death's door, I've been cutting back. Judging from the additional sound Charon makes at this, I don't think he believes me.

“You be safe, then,” Carol says. “I've got this letter for Gob...”

She begins to pull it out of her apron pocket, but I stop her. “Don't worry about it, we'll be back today. I came down here to talk to you, of course, but I have some extra business to take care of.”

Hopefully when it's all said and done, she'll still want me to visit again.

 

“A diet,” Charon says when we're alone in the dripping hallway of the Museum's lower floor. “I did not know that scotch and cake constituted a diet.”

“Anything can be a diet, I just didn't say what kind it was,” I defend myself. “Anyway, I like scotch and I like cake. And it's a lot sweeter and fluffier than modern stuff.”

“Do you have any idea how many chemicals and preservatives must be in those to keep them from going stale?” Charon demands.

“It's _fine._ Preservatives just mean that they'll help me live longer.”

“I don't think that's how it works.”

“Fuck you, I'm a doctor.” I huff and adjust my bag of charges. “Are you ready for this?”

Charon makes a face. “Unfortunately.”

One of the things that he and I were contemplating while I worked on testing the bombs back in Megaton was how we were going to get past the feral ghouls without killing them. The sheer number of ferals below Underworld is, of course, a major deterrent. Charon's understanding was that no human has been down here in fifty years, and so these guys have only built up their numbers as more ghouls-gone-feral are dumped off here. Doctor Barrows in particular is against their culling, since he wants to study them in case something happens to Meat or Ethel.

So, we have to get past them, and sneaking probably won't work since ghouls investigate any movement they see. However, we know that they're _extremely_ stupid, and have a bad sense of hearing and smell. Since they don't attack regular ghouls, Charon guessed that they must just look for the gray, scarred skin and the weeping burns. Clothes and gear mean nothing to them.

Charon strips off his shirt and I look away as he begins to peel off layers of dead skin. There's a _plop_ as a foot-long sheet of ghoul flesh drops on the ground and I gag.

“Don't mind me as I vomit all over myself,” I say. “It's not like this is the most fucking disgusting thing I've ever seen.”

Charon grunts. “Not especially fun for me either.”

We'd come up with this plan on the second day of bomb testing. He peels off all of his dead skin, and _I..._ I'm going to have the dubious pleasure of binding it over my arms and face.

Yeah.

As disgusting as it is, Charon says it'll grow back within a few days, and is only a minor discomfort. The skin beneath is redder and raw, and as long as he doesn't pick down to anything deeper, he's not in any pain or won't bleed from pulling off the quarter-inch thick layer.

“Is this considered personal grooming?” I ask, covering my eyes as I see him reach for a seam on his back.

“Mm. Once every few years we strip it off.”

“Fucking _shit,_ ” I mutter. “You guys are like... crustaceans. Or spiders. You _molt.”_

“About half of Underworld goes to Snowflake for help with this,” he rumbles, picking at his arms now. “To get the spots we can't reach, make sure we don't go too deep.”

“Uh... the living skin doesn't come off as easily, does it?”

“No.”

“Good. By the way, if you can't tell, that's the most god-awful fucking scent I have ever taken in throughout my entire life. Sweat and... death... and sickness.” I'm not lying. Whatever nastiness that was trapped beneath his skin is filling the air, as his pores breathe properly for the first time in years. He smells _wrong,_ inhuman, not yet a corpse but not too far off.

With all the studying I've done over the years, it shouldn't be surprising that I've done research into the connection between scent and the inner workings of the brain—why certain scents evoke lust, or disgust, or happiness. I've thought that since ghouls smell horribly ill, a lot of people may not like them simply because it triggers an automatic negative reaction in the brain. A warning to stay back in case the sickness is contagious. It just gets misdirected into a kind of racial bigotry.

Charon isn't saying anything, just waiting for me to get started on my own part, and so I grudgingly bend down and pick up a roll of skin and tie it to my arm. With what's left, I pin it to a ski mask and pull it on with a shudder.

“Ready,” I say bleakly.

Charon nods, buttoning his shirt. I follow him through the halls, and I contemplate what terrible sins I must have committed in a past life to deserve this—walking through a building filled with monsters, following my zombie boyfriend, wearing his still-warm skin. The one section on my left arm is a little damp, and I refuse to imagine with what.

I edge a little closer to Charon as we pass a Glowing One. By this point, we're deep enough into the lower level that if one of the ferals was smart enough to notice that I'm not one of _them,_ we might as be as good as dead. Well, I would be, anyway. Once I was dead, they might give up on Charon, since he's close enough to being one of them. We're completely surrounded by them, and their numbers only increase as we go deeper into the building. It's like as if when more were added, the previous ones were only shuffled to the back.

A huge and mutated ghoul brushes by me, touching my arm and clothes. I'm unable to hold in a tiny squeak of fear, and the ghoul turns on me with a snarl. I freeze up, terrified, and Charon swears and reaches for his shotgun.

The ghoul and I are locking eyes. His own are grayed out, and only the barest remnants of clothing are still attached to him. His skin is loose, melted, and his pectoral muscles sag all the way down to his navel, slopping against the gelatinous belly when he moves.

 _I... oh no._ I'm staring up at the ghoul, unable to move, trembling, when I think of the single most obvious flaw to our plan— _I don't have blue eyes. I have_ green _eyes._

Mother. Of. Fuck. How could I have not thought of something so obvious? _All_ ghouls have blue or gray eyes, no matter who they are or how feral they've become.

They're stupid, though... they can't... can't...  _I don't want to die here._

The ghoul grunts and leans in close to stare at the top of my head, then abruptly turns and shuffles away.

 _Oh my god._ I nearly collapse to the ground, and Charon grabs my arm.

“Come on,” he growls into my ear. I'm still frozen in shock, shaking, and he leads me into the darkest part of the building. I'm grateful for his firm grip on my arm. I don't normally freak out like this, but then again, I've never been in a situation like this, enclosed on all sides by starving, crazed mutants. If we'd been clearing this place out, I'd have gone through here with a whole bunch of frag grenades, and dealt with them as they came. Preferably with my back up against a wall.

At long last he points out a wall safe, and I nod. I'm not going to bother pulling it out or anything—it'll take too much time, and I'm too nervous about the ferals wandering around us. My disguise is shaky at best.

It takes me just a few minutes to unlock it, and I clear out its contents, smirking at Charon when I find a bottle of scotch. He only crosses his arms and stares at me.

 _Jesus._ Can't we celebrate the little things? I stow my prizes and start fiddling with the locking mechanism. I'm starting to get concerned when my screwdrivers aren't fitting into the tiny driver heads of the screws, but at long last one of the smallest ones I've brought takes them out, although I have to use my magnetizing kit before they'll come out property. I adjust the plate of the replacement number pad, then attach it with the charges hooked in.

“C-4,” I whisper, and Charon begins handing me the blocks. When they're situated, the contract follows, those aged and bloodied pieces of paper sitting on a platter of fiery death. I attach the last charge to the back of the safe, and close it.

“Done?” Charon whispers.

“No,” I say. “I have to test it.”

“Test it?” he growls, keeping his voice low. He glances around. “Let's go. I don't want to stay here any longer.”

“You're fine,” I say, and punch in the code. I cringe and cover my face, half-expected to be deafened by the resulting blast, but the safe door swings open smoothly without a sound. I close it, gingerly, and offer Charon a weak smile.

“You were not certain that it would work?” he asks, dumbfounded.

“I was, like, ninety percent sure,” I admit. “Maybe eighty percent.”

“You didn't think to, hm, practice on a safe _before we left for Underworld?”_ he hisses furiously.

“Oh, yeah, you're right,” I say. “I probably should have had you back up a few feet first.”

“That is not the point!”

A ghoul wanders by, sniffs, and stares at us for a few moments. Charon and I stand perfectly still, and then it pads away, its feet slapping on the tiled floor.

“You're a lunatic!” Charon continues snarling, once it's out of ear-shot. “I cannot believe my contract ended up in the hands of someone so stupid!”

“Oh wow, sorry for trying to keep your _fucking precious contract_ safe,” I retort. “If you don't think that my plan's good enough, how 'bout you, you know, go over there, punch in the code, take our your darling dearest, and shove it _way_ up your ass. Okay? Have fun.”

Charon growls. “It's hardly the plan that I'm concerned about,” he hisses. “It's your lack of forethought! And this is certainly not the first time that something like this has happened?”

I laugh in his face. “Oh yeah?” I challenge. “Give me _one_ example.”

“Hm, maybe, _every battle we've been in?”_ His tone is about as sarcastic as I've ever heard. “You rush ahead of me, and I'm the one who has to bail you out. You assume that because I'm behind you, you're completely invulnerable. And you're _not._ I have warned you time and time again to not be so reckless, but you are so infatuated with your habit of defying me that you walk into situations that would be sure to kill you if I were not constantly watching our surroundings.”

...Huh. Well, he's not wrong... I guess he's right in the sense that I should think a little before I speak. Especially when I'm under the influence. It _was_ pretty stupid to ask him to provide examples. That's literally just giving him a free shot.

“Hey, are you maybe not realizing that that's your fucking job?” I demand. “Did I not buy you for that express purpose?”

“You did not buy _me!”_ Charon roars, spit flying from his mouth. “You bought my _contract!”_

We stand there, in dead silence, as feral ghouls shuffle around us, some moving slowly and some at a steady jog. I stare at him, and he looks suitably sorry, but still absolutely furious.

...I guess Charon wasn't wrong. If I die because he lost his temper, then that's just some seriously bad luck. That really _would_ be his fault. If I dared to speak to him right now, with dozens of powerfully-mutated ghouls breathing down my neck, the first thing I'd do would be rescind that dumb order I gave about not blaming himself for my death.

Dumbass.

Charon begins to slowly back up, not losing eye contact with me, and I follow, taking tiny steps, barely keeping myself from brushing against ferals. The scent of my fear must be so strong... I'd be dead for sure if it wasn't for Charon's own stench. _Thank god his skin smells so awful._

We make it back up to the exit and I don't say a word to him. Charon's not speaking either, and that's just fine. I strip off his disgusting ragged flesh-disguise and toss it onto the floor. I jam the mask into my bag. I'll pull the pins out of it later.

I take a deep breath as we reenter the lobby. “You sure you can't kill an employer on purpose?” I ask, trying to keep my tone casual, but the steel shows through it. And _shit._ The instant I speak, I can feel my throat close, and that means I'm gonna start tearing up any minute. Not sure whether it's from the adrenaline and fear, or because Charon and I had a fight.

“I'm sorry,” he says quietly. I don't see his expression, don't want to look at him, so I just walk back into the Underworld exhibit. At this point I don't care if he follows me or not, but he does, a few feet farther back than normal.

He messed up, and that's the biggest and saddest part of it. I... I can't believe I didn't think about it before, but I've never... never thought about him being capable of making a mistake. With his training... I mean, yeah, he'd hit me with a bit of buckshot, but that was a stray bullet, not anything that was a direct cause of his actions.

This is different. And to realize that Charon's not infallible? That he's not perfect, not a hero, not my dark savior armed with a black shotgun and cold steel? It hurts.

It hurts that he's nothing but an old man with a hell of a temper and combat training. And beyond that, I'm ashamed that I'd idolized him and expected him to be something more.

 

I'm reluctant to make my way upstairs and tell Carol the news, but when I open the door to her inn, I drop my bag in joyful surprise.

“Gaja!”

My ghoul friend stands from her place at the table and approaches me with a smile. “Hey, if it isn't my favorite smoothskin.”

We exchange a heartfelt hug and she continues, “Heard that I'd missed you coming in last night, so I thought I'd stick around and see if I could catch you on your way out.”

“How have you been?” I exclaim. “I was so upset that I never got to say goodbye to you when I left last time.”

“Mm, me too. I woke up about an hour after you left.” She grins, withered lips pulling back in a grim smile. “Imagine my surprise when I came back and found that Ahzrukhal had bit it.”

I glance at Charon. “Yeah... Anyway, let's talk in there, I've got something to tell Carol anyway.”

He begins to follow me, but I cut him off with a dismissive gesture. Gaja stops to look at us, an eyebrow raised. “You stay out here.”

“Helena-”

“That's an order.”

The door closes firmly between us, punctuating my statement.

“Damn, girl,” Gaja says in appreciation. “I couldn't picture the two of you together, but now that I've seen it, you really know how to put him in his place.”

I grunt, and usher her back to the table. Carol brings out hot tea for the two of us, and after I've paid, I close my eyes and sip at it. The taste of jasmine flowers rushes over my tongue.

“You look tired,” Gaja says.

“It's a long, long story,” I sigh. “And ordering Charon around isn't the half of it.”

I've put him outside for more than one reason—I want time alone, away from him, just Gaja and I. It's been days since I've been free from his watchful gaze, and I'm finding Gaja's company to be a balm. Probably the most feminine thing I've done in a long time, drinking tea with a friend, with no men in sight.

“If you can tell me your problems when you're drunk, surely you can tell me now?” Gaja asks, smirking. “Although if it's really bad, I might have to take a few shots.”

I cut to the chase. “Charon and I are sleeping together.”

Gaja spews out her tea and nearly knocks her chair over. “ _What?”_

I shrug glumly. “It sort of ended up happening.”

“Are you serious? You and him?” She's looking back and forth between me and the door, as if she expects Charon to come bursting inside and take me right on the table.

I cover my face, suitably embarrassed. “Do I look like I'm kidding?”

“Damn,” Gaja says, sitting down. “Didn't think you'd be _that_ freaky. But hey, from a ghoulette's point of view, he's pretty attractive. If you're into the tall and brooding types.”

I grunt.

“So, I've got to ask all the requisite questions,” she continues in a sing-song voice, grinning. “How did it happen? Who started it? And, is he any good?”

“I... I guess I started it,” I say grudgingly, “although I think he was interested before anything happened. He acted aloof for a long time, but eventually I got him to say yes.”

“I didn't know that guy was capable of making a choice like that,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “You mean there's really a person underneath all that glaring and grumbling?”

I nod. I'd forgotten how impenetrable Charon seems to those who don't know him. I think the only reason why I even know is because the contract forces him to answer my questions. “Mm. And he's a lot sweeter than you'd think.”

“Awh,” she coos. “Do you love him?”

I freeze up. “Uh... uhm... I don't know?”

Gaja laughs. “Hey, if you're going to have a fling, it might as well be with a guy like him. No offense, but I can't really see anything between a smoothskin and a ghoul lasting.”

A jolt runs through me, and I set my mug down on the table. I'm suddenly intent on what she's saying. My heart's pounding. “What? Why?”

“Well... you know...” Gaja waves a hand uncomfortably, not having me expected to question her. “You smoothskins are so pretty and young. Not very good at long-term planning—of course, that's partly because most of you don't live to be much past thirty, with all the radiation and monsters outside. And to be with a ghoul? I don't lie to myself, we're smelly and unattractive to humans. No matter how 'good' Charon is, I can't see you staying with a guy like him. You guys just won't be able to relate to each other! You're pretty and tough and loud, he's... well, he's Charon. And even if you have his contract, that doesn't make up for the fact that he's got a lot of baggage, and however much you have, it isn't as much as his.”

My hands clench as I listen to Gaja's straightforward tone. She... she's right, isn't she? There's a lot of distance between Charon and I. He was there when the world ended and watched humanity rebuild itself to its current state. I'm just a young woman from a Vault—smart, sure, and with a different perspective on the world than most wastelanders, but still.

“I guess you're right,” I say glumly.

“Hey, don't look sad about it!” Gaja says, clapping me on the shoulder. “It's not like you guys are having a falling-out already, right?”

I smile weakly. “Right.”

I don't feel like telling her about what happened down in the dripping halls, but I have to at least explain the bomb. I'll touch on that later though.

“You didn't answer my question, though,” Gaja says, winking. “Is he any good?”

I blush. “Very.”

“Hah!” she cackles. “I knew it! There's no way a dangerous guy like him could be inexperienced.”

“Geez, is it really something lady ghouls think about?” I grumble. I'm not really impressed with the thought of Charon taking a large number of women to bed, no matter how long it would have been before I was born.

“Oh, don't worry,” Gaja says. “None of us have ever seen him _with_ anyone. No one looking for a real relationship would want to go to him anyway. He's so cold and aloof, you know? In the bar, anyway, he was more like a piece of furniture than anything else. It was just something we'd talk about once in awhile. You know. Speculation.”

She winks again, and I force a laugh. I don't think Gaja realized that she'd upset me by talking about Charon that way. Could it... could it be that I've been projecting emotions onto him? Stuff that isn't really there? When I met him, yeah, the guy was a block of ice. A tall, nasty, shelled creature with an intimidating glare. I'd thought that Ahzrukhal was a lot nicer and more interesting. I wouldn't have given Charon a second thought if I hadn't drunkenly tried to seduce him.

Is it possible that he doesn't feel much for me after all? I mean, why else would Gaja say it wouldn't work out between him and I if he really wouldn't try to keep up a relationship? I feel like I've been shaken, and the only thing I know for sure is that he can genuinely get pissed off at me.

Gaja pours me another cup. “Anyway, I'm happy for you. You're a great girl, and I'm glad that Charon's been a help to you.”

“You wouldn't believe how accurate he is with a shotgun,” I sigh.

“Which one?” Gaja smirks.

“Woah, woah, woah!” I giggle and smack her arm. “That's so gross!”

She leans forward, still grinning. “Shush, it's just us girls in here. So, I have to ask, then: how long does it take him to _reload?”_

Both of us dissolve into snickers. Across the room, Greta shoots us a dirty look.

“Sorry,” Gaja says, waving a hand at Greta. She wipes a tear away from her eye and whispers, “I guess lesbians don't like hearing about the penis.”

“ _The_ penis?” I snort. “What, it's a proper noun?”

“Shut it, I don't know grammar. I've got to assign importance to it somehow.” She pauses. “I'm a fan of referring to it as Charon's Shotgun, though.”

I cover my face. “Noooo! Do you know how embarrassing that'll be? I'm literally going to think about it every time he fires it!”

“Again... which one?”

Both of us crack up again.

“I'm glad to know that age doesn't result in maturity,” I say admiringly to Gaja. “I'd never know how old you are if you hadn't told me.”

She shrugs. “Hey, it is what it is. We've got to keep ourselves young somehow. And being the baby of the city, I feel a certain... hm... social pressure to act up, you know? I might be fifty, but to people like Carol and Greta and everyone, I'm more of a rebellious teen.”

“And here _I_ feel like I'm immature for my age,” I say. “But good job. I hope I'm still as stupid-acting when I'm as old as you. If I make it that far.”

Gaja rolls her eyes. “Don't talk that way! Come on, you'll live a really, really long time. Please? You're the first smoothskin friend I've had since turning, and... you know, no one I've known in my old life, or now, has died from old age... isn't that strange?”

She pauses thoughtfully. “The other ghouls say that that's when the real turning point is. Watching humans age and wither away. Once you see that happen, you begin to get a lot of perspective...”

I frown in sympathy. “I can't imagine.”

“Shit, _I_ can barely imagine,” Gaja says. “So don't let it happen. You'll just have to become a ghoul and live with us.”

I laugh. “Alright, given the minuscule possibility that I get ghoulified instead of dying from radiation, _and_ I'm amongst the tiny fraction that stays sane, I'll make sure I make my way down here.”

“Good!” Gaja says brightly. “And then, then! We can reopen Ahzrukhal's bar together! We'll make really excellent drinks!”

“Huh,” I say. “You know, I've never even thought about owning a bar.”

“Don't know if you have the personality for it,” Gaja says thoughtfully. “You're really just more of an alcoholic.”

I shrug. No sense defending myself against that one.

“But, it doesn't matter! You can be our eye-candy. Short skirts and a tight top... every lonely ghoul for miles will visit to get to have a pretty young ghoulette lean _way_ over their table and serve them delicious, ice-cold beer.”

“Scotch,” I insist.

“Beer.”

“Scotch.”

“Are we going to have to break up our business deal because of this?” Gaja demands. “Come on, we need to compromise if this is gonna work out between us.”

“Wow, Gaja. I thought we had something special going on, and you're going to throw our relationship in my face like this? That's really low.”

“Ugh, _fine._ Scotch. But also beer.”

“Alright,” I say, laughing. “You've got me sold.”

“And Charon can be our bouncer! He might even be happy to go back to his old corner.”

Hm. I'm not sure. Maybe. “You know, he actually said that he kind of likes Underworld.”

“Hah, really? That's amazing. I sort of thought that he hated all of us.” Gaja pauses. “I'd heard that he only lived with smoothskins before Ahzrukhal got him. Has he said anything about that?”

“A little,” I say, thinking of our conversation on the way down here. “But I'm curious, do you know why he got landed in Azzie's employ?”

“Mm, sort of. No one really likes to talk about it, and I'm pretty new here, compared to everyone else. He was already an established figure when I arrived in Underworld. I _do_ know that he got a bunch of people killed.”

I nod. “He told me as much. He thinks it's his fault.”

“I can see why,” Gaja says with a shrug. “There's a lot of bad blood between him and the rest of Underworld. People hate him and fear him. I think Winthrop was happy that you offered to take him off of our hands.”

I frown. “I don't think it's fair. It's not like he was trying to get anyone hurt. He was trying to protect his friends.”

“Friends? From what I heard, the guys he was with were just a bunch of mercenaries. And they deserted him as soon as they could.” Gaja lowers her voice. “And, one of the ghouls killed was Greta's son. I mean her biological son, that she'd had before they both were turned.”

“Holy shit,” I breathe. Is _that_ why she's so bitter? Could that be why Carol made a comment about Greta being jealous of Gob and Carol, that Carol suspected Greta was pleased when Gob left the city to 'seek his fortune'?

“Yeah. You can hardly imagine the shitstorm that must have caused.” Gaja sips at her tea daintily, pleased with herself to have shocked me. “This place has a _long_ history.”

“So there were actually a few families, intact ones, here?”

“Yeah, and Charon caused most of them to die. Ahzrukhal's family, Greta's son... and actually, one of my ancestors. My grandpa's brother or something. Any other families, they've all split up by some other way, someone dying because of the Brotherhood, shit like that.” Gaja waves a hand. “Tough world.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. I'm a little overwhelmed by this. To think that poor Charon had caused so much heartache and destruction, just after losing his own beloved master... and poor Greta and Carol. Carol'd said that they were together for over sixty years, so they must have traveled down to Underworld together with Greta's son.

And then he died. Because of Charon. Along with all those other ghouls, backed against the wall by Super Mutants firing at _humans,_ not even trying to kill them. Not exactly friendly fire, but still.

Carol exits the kitchen, and I wave her over to the table.

"There you are," I say. "That didn't take too long."

"Not many dishes to wash," she says, and then frowns at my expression. "Is something wrong?"

“I actually have something to tell the two of you, and neither of you are going to like it,” I say shortly.

“Oh... okay?” Carol asks, looking concerned. Gaja only leans on her elbow, confident that she can take whatever I'm about to say.

I'm not so sure.

“I took measures,” I say, biting my lip. “In order to protect Charon.”

Gaja only raises an eyebrow.

“Before I explain,” I continue, “Carol. I have to know this before I say anything else, but what would you do if you had Charon's contract?”

She shakes her head slowly. “Send him out of the city.”

“You'd... what, sell his contract?” I'm angry but not surprised.

“Give it away, even. That man is bad luck and I want nothing to do with him,” she says. “And, sweetie, I wish you'd listen to me and pass him off to someone else. There's no sense in becoming attached to an animal like him.”

I cross my arms. “Fine, then. I wrote a will, of sorts, and I left it with Charon. If... _when_ I die, he's going to tell someone a passcode. And that passcode is to a safe deep underneath Underworld. It's got his contract inside.”

Their eyes widen.

“Before you think about how dangerous it is to leave the contract unguarded,” I say, “it isn't. You might think, Carol, to try to help me out yourself, take things into your own hands? Maybe, hm, go down to the lower level past all the ferals and try out a few random sequences in hopes that you can guess it and send Charon off far away, where his terrible luck and influence won't hurt me? Don't. You see, there's ten pounds of explosives rigged to the safe, and if there's even a single mistype, the safe is going to blow. And I made sure that when it does, all of Underworld is gonna go down with it.”

“You... you what?” Carol whispers.

Gaja leans back and laughs. “Holy _shit._ You armed this thing already?”

“Mm. It's armed. And, conveniently tamper-proof, so if anyone tries to dig it out of the wall and throw it way out of the city, it'll explode then, too. Thought I'd give you both fair warning. Don't go down there. Don't let anyone go down there.”

“You...” Carol's got about the meanest look I've ever seen come from a female ghoul. “I trusted you!”

“Yep,” I say. “You did. Stupid thing to do.”

There's another long silence, and Greta comes bustling over our way. “What's going on in here?”

“She's betrayed us,” Carol says, her voice shaking. “She's doomed us all.”

Greta's face furrows as she tries to understand, while Carol turns to face me again. “You understand that we can't ever leave this place? That there's nowhere else for us to go? You've got us right on top of a danger worse than the nuke in Megaton!”

I say, trying to keep my voice calm, “Then I suppose you'll have to keep anyone from getting to that safe, huh?”

“Bitch,” Greta snarls, as she realizes what I've done. “This is all because of that goddamn bodyguard, isn't it? You're only worried about yourself!”

“No,” I say, “I'm worried about him. I'm not letting him go to another Ahzrukhal. If you're both pissed because of what happened _fifty fucking years ago,_ then you've got to start coming to peace with it. He made a mistake.”

“A mistake that killed my son!” Greta screeches.

“We all make mistakes,” I retort. “When you've lived as long as Charon, there's bound to be one that's going to kill a hell of a lot of people. You guys all know I'm from a Vault, right? I only left because my dad did. _He_ got away from our Overseer while _I_ had to stay behind and clean up his mess. He doesn't know I'm out here, doesn't know that _his_ mistake cost the lives of over four people. At least Charon's trying to make amends for his own actions.”

They're all still reacting, and Greta is shouting insults at me, but I speak over her, silently pleased that my low voice carries so well. “Charon had to deal with your bullshit for years. So now you're going to deal with a little from me. Keep that contract safe, or else.”

I toss a bag of caps on the table. “So that's it, unless you still want me to take the letter to Gob. Gaja? You're getting the passcode upon my death.”

“Shit, yes,” she mutters. “Wait, no, don't let yourself get killed, remember?”

“Mm.”

Carol presses the letter into my hands, her eyes flashing angrily. “Don't come back until you have a letter from him.”

I sigh. I knew that it would end this way, but it still hurts. Maybe someday she'll forgive me... but it might not ever be within my own lifetime.

“Later, Gaja,” I say. “Take care of yourself.”

She winks. “Give the big guy a kiss from yours truly, you hear?”

I walk out of the inn, still listening to the flustered sounds of Greta and Carol's indignation and rage. Gaja laughs at something that Carol says, reveling in the chaos, and then the door shuts.

Don't know what Charon will think when I die, but I _do_ know that he's gonna go to someone just as reckless and crazy as I am. And if nothing else, she'll at least keep him distracted for a long, long time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving!


	10. Parting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is time to say goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW! The ending of JaODS already?! I can hardly believe it... and I almost don't want to, because Part 3 of the series needs some work, but never fear, it will be available next week! I will do a lot of work between this Thursday and next.  
> Thank you all so much for your lovely comments and kudos during Part 2. I was thrilled to see readers coming back again, especially my darlings, RemindMeWhoIAm, Happy_Drifter_of_Cold_Winds, and Lady_Trevelyan84. You three never fail to make my day with your sweet comments.
> 
> And, without further ado, the end of Part 2 awaits.

“Are we done here?” Charon asks quietly.

I nod, still not looking at him. “It went as well as we could have hoped for,” I say. “And there's a minor change: in the event that I die, you'll tell the passcode to Gaja. Given your history with Carol and Greta, I decided that they wouldn't be a very good fit for you.”

“If that is what you wish.”

“It is,” I say. “She's a good girl. I wanted to give you to a ghoul, you know, so that they have a better shot of holding onto you indefinitely. Out of everyone here, I think she'll be the best to you.”

Charon doesn't say anything else, but I don't think he disagrees. Gaja is young, and she wasn't here when he messed up and brought death to their doorstep. She has more innocence and kindness in her than the other cynical bastards in this place, who hold Charon's mistakes against him mercilessly. She'll be good to him, and will amuse him, I think, and that is all I can ask for.

We head right back into the metro after leaving Underworld—I'm not about to be there when everyone else finds out about what I've done. I'd looked back at the door to the Ninth Circle, but I don't think I'm ready to go back there yet. Too many memories.

The issue with Ahzrukhal and Charon still makes me lose sleep sometimes. Even after everything that I've heard about Azzie, all that I ever saw of him was decent. I could see the cold businessman underneath, the glimpses of evil, but he was nice to me. He listened to me, and he made me laugh. Thinking back on it, if I had always been interested in fucking ghouls, I might have been interested in him, even if just a little. And I would have wanted to stay friends with him, visit with him as much as I did with Gaja and Carol.

And Charon ruined that. I know that my lover is a pretty intense guy, after watching him kill raiders alongside me, but to have seen him kill in cold blood? To have killed my friend?

Those two sides of the ghouls—Ahzrukhal's insanity and Charon's ruthlessness—I can't reconcile them to the men I knew.

 

Charon stops me as we near Farragut West Station. His eyes are fixed on the lit bonfires cutting through the darkness.

“Shit,” I mutter. “Raiders have moved in already?”

It's frustrating how quickly it happens, but I can't blame them for moving underground when it's so dangerous above. Yao Guai, bloatflies, deathclaws... there's so many things that'll kill you if you're not constantly on your guard.

Charon shushes me. “They may not be here at the moment. I will scout ahead.”

“Bullshit,” I whisper. “We're going together.”

He grits his teeth. “Did we not already have an argument about this today? Can't you just listen to me for once?”

He strides ahead of me and I clench my fists. Damn him. Stupid fucking Charon. We're almost home, and he has to bring that up again?

_I don't want to fight with him._

My bodyguard is maybe about ten yards ahead of me when I see it—a long, thin line that I wouldn't have noticed if it didn't reflect the firelight.

“Chare,” I hiss, but it's too late.

The tripwire snaps, and a chained cinderblock swings from its tenuous perch at the ceiling and slams right into the side of my ghoul's head. He's able to get out the first part of a startled curse before it hits him, and the resulting noise is awful, like a hammer striking a hanging cut of meat. Charon falls, unconscious.

“Hahaha! Holy shit, did you see that?”

I crouch, my heart in my throat, as a man with a wide-brimmed hat looks down the darkened ramp towards my fallen companion.

“Damn, and we only set up that trap not even fifteen minutes ago,” another man replies. His voice is higher-pitched, soft, amused. He sounds educated.

_Fuck. These aren't just normal raiders._

“Tell me if he's still alive,” the second man says.

Hat man kneels by Charon's side. “Ugh. Dammit, it's just another ghoul. Yeah, he's still breathin'.”

“Drag him over here and we'll figure out what to do with him.”

“Dammit,” the hat man says. “I was really hoping we wouldn't get another rotter. No one wants them as slaves anymore. They're so fucking nasty to look at.”

_Slavers._

I look around wildly as Charon disappears from sight, patting myself down. Two slavers, that's easy enough—but with Charon hurt, they might kill him when I attack just to get him out of the way. I've got my M1 with me, yeah, the 10mm and my brand-new laser pistol, but that's it as far as weapons go. _Fuck._

I creep forward a few steps, careful to stay out of the light. If I can get to a better position, then I might be able to take them both out before they know what hit 'em.

“Man, he's huge,” the soft-voiced guy breathes. “You sure he's not feral?”

“No,” the other says.

“Well, if he is, it's only recently. His clothes look fairly new. You know the drill: take all of his weapons and gear, and hook him to the end of the line.”

There's a muffled sound and I stop by a trashcan, as close to them as I dare, and peek around. There's three slaves in chains, two men and one woman, and the one on the end is shaking his head, eyes wide. All of them are gagged.

Hat man laughs. “Don't blame ya. If I were you, I wouldn't be too happy about a feral being put up against my back either.”

The soft-voiced man says, “Don't worry, you're too valuable—if he wakes up and can't speak, I'll put a bullet through his head before he even scratches you. I want all three of you in Paradise Falls in perfect condition.”

My fingernails bite into my hand as they speak. _Charon._ My lover is splayed out on the ground, his eyes closed, a lifeless doll. They have his shotgun resting against the far wall, and the hat man is pulling out his combat knife with a smirk.

I bite my lip and then reach for my bag. As quietly and quickly as I'm able, I transfer my stimpaks and other drugs into the top of my boots—Med-X, Jet, Psycho. Obviously I'm not about to use the Psycho, but if I can get to one of those prisoners and inject them with it, they might become strong and enraged enough to tear free of their chains and help me kill the slavers, if the situation becomes that dire. (I've got a thin pocket in each boot specifically for my drugs. I'd quickly found that boot pockets are the best place for stimpaks, because usually when you're shot you end up on the ground with your face pressed against your knees anyway.)

Then I pull out my 10mm and squint, aiming for the hat man's ugly face. He's moving, so I won't risk a shot, but I'll need to finish him off quickly. He's already handcuffing Charon to the end of the slave chain.

 

I hear the whuffing before anything else, and with a shrill scream of alarm, I'm forced onto my stomach. The 10mm clatters away, a good two feet out of reach. Hot breath blasts against my neck, and inch-long claws press into my back. I'm gasping for air.

_Oh god. No. No, please, no._

Yao guai.

The soft-voiced man laughs and moves into my line of vision. “Good girl, Marta. Good girl.”

He leans over me, and the yao guai snorts and whuffs as the slaver feeds it a piece of jerky from his pocket.

“Now _this_ is a better catch,” he says to the hat man. “A young woman, well-fed, not too old or ugly to fuck? There's any number of people who'd buy her. Good stock for a prostitute or, given her stature, maybe even a guard.”

“Think we could sell her to the harem outside of Philedelphia? She looks like a matriarch. Graybill was bitching about how he wants more of that kind, right?”

“They have to be a certain height and weight,” the soft-voiced man says. “At least six feet tall and over two hundred pounds.”

“Pretty close, I think,” hat man says. “Worth a shot anyway, right?”

“Mm,” the other slaver says, and I'm squirming, trying to reach for the laser pistol on my left hip. “Don't reach for that, darling, or else Marta will eat your hand.”

I stop when the yao guai's teeth close around my wrist.

“Please let me go,” I beg, finally giving up on fighting them. “Please.”

The soft-voiced man kneels and I look into his eyes. He's older than I'd thought, with silver hair and striking green eyes. He's got a gentle smile. “Ah, those big sad eyes, every slaver's weakness, right?”

His fingers lift my chin, and my neck strains uncomfortably, the yao guai still holding me down. He studies me and then wipes a smear of blood off of my chin and licks it. “Beautiful. I love it when women look at me this way.”

My eyes widen and I would have flinched back ten feet if I didn't have a mutated black bear sitting on me. _Oh god..._ he's insane. He's a pervert. I feel bile rising into my throat, and my eyes fill with tears.

“Please,” I beg again, my voice breaking. “I'll do anything.”

The silver-haired man stands, frowning. “Gag her,” he orders. “Marta, heel.”

I take in a rush of air as the yao guai stands, and the hat man crushes me back to the ground with his boot. A leather strip is shoved into my mouth and my tongue is nearly forced down my throat as he ties it, far too tightly.

I'm brought to my knees and my hands are bound. I keep looking at the silver-haired man, since he's obviously in charge, and he'd called me beautiful. Surely with women being his admitted weakness, playing into his twisted kinks might be enough to save me.

I keep pleading, through my gag, and tears stream down my face. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the female slave shake her head at me, but it's too late.

The silver-haired slaver groans at the sight of my tears, and I see a resulting bulge in his dusty gray pants. My eyes widen in fear. _Shit._ I had no idea that it went to this extent. _Damn fucking naive bitch,_ I curse myself. _No fucking shit a slaver with a 'weakness for women' gets turned on by something like this._

I tremble as he leans down, and his right hand squeezes my breast as the left wipes away my tears.

“What's that?” he murmurs. “Keep begging.”

I'm silent, and his thumb caresses my face. “Hm? You don't think you have a chance at convincing me anymore? It's not because I'm too excited about this, is it? I might keep you for myself if you cry enough. It won't be as bad as some of the places you might find yourself in, but it'll be just bad enough to keep you in tears. What do you think of that, hm?”

I'm trembling, angry and terrified, and he sighs. “The things you women make me do...” he moans, and unbuttons his pants.

My heart goes wild and I glance around. _There must be something-_ The other slaves are grim-faced, the woman and a man looking at the ground, and the other staring at me, his back rigid, as if trying to give me strength to survive what's about to happen.

The hat man is of no help either. He's standing with his back turned to us, whistling happily with Marta the yao guai by his side.

And Charon is still unconscious.

The slaver shoves me and I land on my back, hard. Before I can squeeze my legs together, he's pressing himself against me, his erection throbbing against the seam of my pants.

He licks his lips and offers me that tired, kind smile again. He whispers, “Are you a virgin?”

I shake my head angrily, and his face closes off. “A damn shame.”

I reach forward, trying to keep him from pulling down my pants, but he swats my bound hands off to the side and pins them down with a hand. _Damn, he's strong._

I kick his side as my waistband slides over my hips, the slaver as gentle as a starry-eyed lover, and his fingers caress me. Despite knowing his disgusting fetish, my eyes fill with tears automatically, and he sighs.

_Charon, goddammit, wake up!_

But my pleas don't reach him. I kick again, as his fingers pry at my folds, and a syringe clatters on the ground beside us, having been shaken out of my boot.

My lips thin. Psycho. Of course it would be Psycho to land there—the one thing that might save me, and the one thing that I can absolutely never take.

But what choice do I have?

I kick the syringe closer to me, right by my hands that the slaver's still holding down, and he takes in a sharp breath at the sight of my legs parting farther.

“I think you'll be a nice addition to my home in Paradise Falls,” he murmurs. “Along with my other prizes, my collection is nearly complete.”

Having taken my movements as a sign of acceptance, his grip on my hands lessens.

_And there's my cue._

I draw back my leg as far as I can and slam it against his shoulder. He growls and I depress the syringe of Psycho into my stomach.

There's an instant flash of red, and even though it's only just making contact with my bloodstream, this small victory is enough to strengthen me enough to land another kick at his face. The handsome slaver swears and reels back, a hand pressed to the cut above his eye, and the yao guai turns with a growl.

Getting my pants back on is my first priority, and the slaver's got enough time to collect himself and force himself back on top of me. He's a fucking idiot, though, and his face gets within a centimeter of my reach—I buck and snap my jaws closed on his earlobe, and the taste of blood is enough to tell me that he probably won't ever be piercing it.

“Bitch!” the hat man snarls, and both slavers and the yao guai are around me.

And then I fade out.

 

I don't know what happened after that, but when I come to, there's a bloody haze in the air and fire is spreading across the floor.

I bite my lip. I'm still in the metro, I'm sure, but my surroundings are alien. Burning rubbish surrounds me, and there's no sight of neither slaves nor slavers. Trash cans and rubble have been replaced with ancient braziers, and my guns are all missing. I am barefoot and wearing a dress made from autumn leaves.

“Charon,” I breath, and kneel by his side. He's still unconscious, but unbound. He's wearing a crown of white flowers, and his arms are crossed over his chest as if for burial.

I touch his face and my fingers leave soot on his cheek.

Once again, it's difficult to tell what is real and what is an effect of the psychosis. I glance around, still trying to find our weapons, and then I see it: in the very center of the room is a burning flower growing up from the cracked cement. A blazing lily, each petal a tongue of molten flame, its stem and leaves blackened and charred. It's got a glow unlike anything I've ever seen before.

Transfixed, I approach it—the petals split open and fall away. There's a fiery coal in the very center, and without thinking, I snatch it up.

My hand doesn't burn, though, and I stand staring at it for many long minutes. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. The flames dance in my hand, gold-orange and blood-red. My skin warms.

“You,” a deep voice growls, and I look away, startled that there's anyone in this strange burning room aside from myself and Charon, who is still lifeless on the ground. The moment I lay eyes upon the figure, I cower and scream. My eyes spurt blood, and I hack out black bile onto the ground.

I am not in the metro anymore.

I am in hell, and I have seen the devil.

I press the coal to my chest and fall to my knees, holding myself tight to the floor. I am certain that I am going to die. The devil is the single most terrifying and ugly creature I've seen, a dark figure with impossible features, a constantly shapeshifting monstrosity whose visage causes instant bleeding and madness.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” the devil says, and I weep in fear. I hear cloven hooves approaching me and I tremble.

_“He's telling the truth. How are you feeling?”_

I look up slowly, expecting to see the devil, but instead there's a Brahmin blocking my view of that monster. It takes me a few minutes to realize that it was the Brahmin that had spoken to me.

“I'm dead,” I moan. “Oh god, I'm dead, I... ugh...”

 _“Calm down,”_ the Brahmin says, both heads speaking in unison. _“It's the Psycho. Don't worry, after an experience like that, you're bound to have a bad trip.”_

I shiver, my eyes fixed on the clawed feet of the devil, barely visible past the bulk of the bovine mutant in front of me.

_“Can you hear me? Can you answer some questions?”_

“I... yes.”

_“What's your name?”_

“Helena.”

_“Do you know where you are?”_

“I'm in hell... aren't I?” I ask slowly. I remember the slaver raping me and killing me, and Charon being shot in the head. We're dead, and we've been in this burning room for weeks, simply waiting for the devil to come for us and harvest our organs.

And now the devil is here, and the only thing keeping him from us is the Brahmin.

 _“Wrong,”_ the Brahmin says, then lets out a grim laugh that makes the fires around us shiver. _“Although not too far off, in a sense. Does the name Farragut West ring a bell?”_

“That's the name of a place from a long time ago,” I say. “Back when I was alive.”

_“You're still alive, alright? Let's get that straightened out first.”_

I shake my head. This animal can't lie to me. It's just some evil demonic trick. If I allow it to convince me that there's still a chance for me, it might give the devil some kind of entrance into my mind, and it'll only cause the deaths of more people.

“At least she can hear what we're saying,” the devil rumbles, and I scream again and cover my ears.

 _“Maybe you'd better be quiet,”_ the Brahmin says. _“Helena, will you listen to us for a bit?”_

I don't say anything. For some reason, I've got this niggling image of Gaja in an alleyway somewhere. A memory of a million years ago.

 _“You're on Psycho. You're tripping. None of what you see is real.”_ The Brahmin pauses. _“Listen, the three of us are raiders, pretty much, but you don't have to worry about us. You saved our asses, so we'll look after you for now, okay?”_

“Raiders,” I repeat, and I have an image of two men and a woman chained together in a darkened room.

_“The slavers and the yao guai are down for the count. And you're badly hurt. About half of the blood in this room is yours. Do you have any stimpaks?”_

The last word jars me enough for me to look down at myself and say, “Uh... yes. I do.” I'm surprised to see that I'm wearing leather boots and armor. When did this happen?

 _“Use any that you have,”_ the Brahmin advises. _“And Jet, if you have it.”_

I reach for the hidden pocket in my boot and inject myself with two stimpaks and some Med-X. My right boot pocket has Jet. Obediently, I huff it until there's nothing left in the capsule.

The Brahmin bares its teeth at me in an evil smile. _“The Jet will make the hallucinations worse, but the stuff you see won't be as scary.”_

I'm beginning to see glimmers of reality through the cracks of this world. “Is... is Charon okay?”

_“The ghoul? He's alive. Unconscious though. He took a good knock to the head.”_

I frown, trying to get the order of events sorted out. Everything's rushing through my head and out into the world, ambiguous shapes and auras and glowing birds. The room is filling with creatures from my mind, representations of ideas.

I stand, refusing to look at the devil, and make my way to a flaming garden. “Charon and I were traveling to Megaton,” I say, studying the fiery plants as I recall the truth, “and we were caught by slavers. One of them... ugh... I injected Psycho to fight them off.”

 _“Good,”_ the Brahmin says approvingly.

I look at the two-headed beast, suddenly concerned. “I can't go there anymore. I... My brain is fractured. The doctor told me that if I take Psycho again, I'll go crazy for good. So... so this is permanent?”

I glance around the room, the flames bold and beautiful, making pictures against the wall. The devil is a dark shadow looming in the corner. I stretch out my hands and I see that I am on fire as well, a light gold aura that burns anything I touch.

I sigh. _Motherfucker._ I can tell that the Jet is working, because I'm a lot less terrified, but I _really_ don't like the thought of being dependent on something just to keep my life from being a waking nightmare.

 _“Basically,”_ the Brahmin says. _“Don't sweat it. It's not as bad as you'd think. You get used to it.”_

I bite my lip. “You... you guys all have hallucinations too?”

 _“We only became raiders after the Psycho scorched our brains,”_ the Brahmin says with a harsh laugh. _“Full-time ones, anyway. Working together, doing our best to trust each other, we're able to make it in the world.”_

“So it's possible to live... uhm, a normal life like this?”

 _“Fuck no,”_ the Brahmin snorts. _“Too dangerous. No one wants someone as crazy as a feral ghoul to live in their town, right? That's all we are anymore.”_

“Feral ghouls,” I say, a sinking feeling in my stomach. “Oh god. Charon's gonna kill me.”

_“You guys were friends?”_

“Mm.”

 _“He'll be okay,”_ the Brahmin says soothingly.

“He protected me,” I say. “Last time I was on this stuff, I kept seeing enemies. I... he's in danger the longer I stay with him.”

I look at my lover sadly, and this time he's on a marble table, a dead prince laid out for a grand funeral. White lilies surround his corpse, and he's in a black suit. I'm with it enough now to know that he isn't really dead, but he will be if I stay with him. I'm too dangerous.

I blink, my eyes still bleeding, and stare at the devil head-on. His dark form shivers, and then stays solid, a massive black monster with long clawed fingers and wearing a horned skull.

“I can't put him in danger,” I say firmly. “Not him.”

The devil nods slowly, the bleached skull tipping.

I take a deep breath. _This is it._

“Let me come with you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading to the end, but the story does not stop here! The series will have four main sections, with a few oneshots that I'll probably include near the end, so we're already half-way done~
> 
> Some other projects that I am working on right now, in case you were wondering, are my fics Small Monsters (Fawkes/LW) and Crazy He Calls Me (Gob/LW). There are other ones that I have on hold, or am planning the very basics of, such as an Ahzrukhal/LW, Wadsworth/LW (because I am a sick fuck), President Eden/LW (see previous; am a sick fuck), and an *extremely* freaky Butch/LW unlike any that you have ever read. Promise.
> 
> I also bought Fallout 4 during the Steam sale, and will probably work on some fics when I finish that game, too. (It is downloading as I type this).  
> So, if you have any requests for me, whether it's that you want more of one of my other fics that I'm already working on, or if you have an underdog ship that needs some love, or a suggested Fallout 4 fic, please comment and let me know! I write about eight hours a day, or more, so nothing is too hard for me.
> 
> Thank you, darlings!
> 
> Part 3: Madness and Other Deadly Sins will begin on Thursday, 12/8/16.


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